Hope Forgotten II: Witch
by Parda
Summary: In the sixteenth century, Cassandra and Ramirez move to Scotland and build a cottage in Donan Woods, then meet a young Immortal: Connor MacLeod. Cassandra becomes his teacher, in many ways.
1. HF2: Chapter 1

**Warning: **violence, rape, sexual content, and profanity.  
**Disclaimer:** Not my universe, not my characters.

_This story follows Hope Forgotten I: Priestess_

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**_Cassandra and the Prophecy_  
Hope Forgotten II**

**WITCH**

by Parda (September 1998)

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_**It is written from the deserts**_  
_** to the mountains they shall lead us.**_

_**

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**_

**Carnevale, 1501 CE**  
**Venice, the Italian Peninsula

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**

Roland was hunting her. Again. He had been hunting her for over twenty-seven centuries, and still he hunted. Cassandra had hoped to escape him by coming to Venice, but she could sense another Immortal here at the masquerade ball at the Doge's Palace, and she knew the other Immortal had sensed her, too.

She did not look about her, did not try to determine which of the fantastically garbed figures was scanning the room carefully. She pretended she felt nothing. She had heard Roland was in the south of the peninsula. Her friend, the Mother Superior of the Abbey of St. Anne, had sent word of an unusually persuasive mercenary captain. The captain had recently been working for Cesare Borgia, the pope's son. Cesare was apparently very impressed with his new accomplice, who had a talent for intrigue and destruction. But perhaps Roland was no longer in the south; perhaps he was here.

As she moved casually yet quickly out of the large ballroom, she caught a glimpse of a man across the room dressed as Death, or at least dressed as this culture's idea of Death. He carried a long scythe in his hand, and a black domino covered his face. If that was Roland dressed as Death, she had no doubt that the scythe would be sharpened. Roland would enjoy that little joke.

She was in costume, too, masked and dressed in gray as Athena. If the other Immortal was Roland, he might not have recognized her. Yet. Even if the other Immortal was not Roland, she had no wish to meet him. Or her. Cassandra had not learned how to kill an Immortal until she had been over two centuries old, but now every Immortal seemed to know about taking heads. Roland had indeed liked to boast.

And Kalia had been right. Others did come hunting, hunting for heads. They called it the Game, and they spoke of a Prize for the last Immortal left alive. The winner of the Game would receive all the power of every immortal who had ever lived, enough power to rule the world. Cassandra did not believe in the Game or the Prize. She did not believe there would be a final victory. If such a prize truly existed, then the Four Horsemen would not have been content to be "brothers." They would have killed each other for it. The only "prize" from taking a head was the Quickening, that excruciating and addicting surge of power as the lightning entered your body and the dark agony burned into your brain. She hated that feeling. She craved that feeling.

She was not sure when "the Game" had started, when she had first heard the phrase, "There can be only one." At the beginning there had been so few Immortals; she had often gone decades without meeting any. But then the challenges had started coming more frequently, and she greeted each Immortal with distrust and dread, wondering if they would try to kill her or if she would have to try to kill them. She knew she could not quit the Game; no one could quit.

But that did not mean she had to play. She could run, as she had run so many times before. Holy Ground was a refuge; no immortal could challenge her there. The cathedral was close by, but it was too obvious. She would go to the church of San Zaccaria; it was not far away. Cassandra slipped through the door to the portico and was immediately greeted by a stout man dressed unconvincingly as Apollo.

"Fair Goddess Athena," he declaimed, "thou art lovely indeed. But I must confess that I believe one so beautiful as you should be Aphrodite, the goddess of love." He tried to adjust the wilted crown of leaves on his head and left it crooked. "No matter, we have both traveled far from Olympus. May I offer you shelter for this night?" He gave an unsteady bow, twanging his untuned lyre in the process.

Cassandra gritted her teeth at the sound and heartily regretted her choice of costume. It had seemed appropriate enough earlier; her helmet helped to mask her face and hair, and as Athena she carried a sword and shield. Aphrodite would have carried an apple.

Even with a sword, Cassandra wanted to get as far away as she could from the other Immortal, whoever it was. "My pardon, brother Apollo," she said politely, "but father Zeus summons me." She started to walk away.

"I shall see you ere I pull the chariot of the sun across the sky," he called after her.

Cassandra did not reply, but moved rapidly through the crowd on the portico, making her way to the Piazza of San Marco. She dared not go home; she must get to the sanctuary of Holy Ground.

Away from the fetid and perfumed air of the ballroom, the coolness of the night was a welcome relief, even with the underlying reek of sewage. She wrapped her cloak about her more tightly and mingled with the singing and shouting crowds of merry-makers. No one would sleep tonight, this last night before the Lenten season of repentance.

The crowds thinned after she crossed the high bridge that led away from the Piazza, and Cassandra walked more quickly. She dropped the shield and the helmet into the next canal; the helmet's distinctive profile would give her away instantly. She was in a narrow side street, almost to the church, when she felt the tingling on her neck and the ache in her head that heralded the arrival of another Immortal. Cassandra swiftly drew her sword and hid in the shadow of a doorway, then pulled off her mask so it would not obscure her vision. Was it Roland? How had he found her so quickly?

She saw him then, a dark-robed figure moving cautiously along the street, a drawn sword gleaming in his hand. She swallowed, trying to moisten a dry mouth.

He turned, seeing the flutter of her robe, and called out, "Stand forth!"

She closed her eyes briefly in gratitude as she recognized the voice-deep, warm, a little throaty. Even in a challenge it sounded good. She stepped out of the doorway, her sword still ready but not raised to attack.

He hesitated, seeing her face in the dim light. "Cassia?" he asked in disbelief, taking a step back.

"Xanthos," Cassandra replied, the name he had used when first they met nearly two thousand years ago. "Or should I say, Lucius?"

He swept off his hat and bowed extravagantly, being careful not to take his eyes from her. "Actually, of late I have been known as Luciano Antonio Calaveri." He straightened and clapped his hat back on his head. "However, that name no longer appeals to me, and I am thinking of choosing another. And you are called ...?"

"Isadora Caboto," she answered.

He nodded in approval. "The name suits you."

She bent her head slightly and smiled, wondering if it had been him she sensed earlier. "Have you been celebrating tonight?"

"Yes, I was with friends at a small party at an inn."

Cassandra kept the smile on her face, though she felt cold inside. So there was at least one more Immortal in Venice. She could not take the chance that it was Roland; she must leave immediately. And perhaps Xanthos, or rather Luciano, could be of help. Roland did not like fighting other Immortals, at least not experienced ones. "You are alone?" she asked.

He grinned at her, his white teeth gleaming against his darkened skin in the dimness of the alley. "Yes, alone, and quite - unencumbered, shall we say?"

She smiled back, remembering. "I, too, am free to travel."

His grin turned into a slow smile. "But this is no place to talk!" he exclaimed, looking about him at the filthy alley. "Shall we find a more congenial spot?"

"Yes, I think we should," Cassandra replied.

Carefully watching each other, they sheathed their swords. He bowed again and offered her his arm. They went back to the Piazza and made their way through more crowds. The frenzied celebrators were grotesquely lit by flaring torches. After crossing three bridges they arrived at a small inn, marked by a swinging sign of a howling wolf.

The inn was warm and smoky, well-lit by torches on the walls. He strode in with her on his arm, his polished boots ringing on the stone floor. With a flourish, he swept off his plumed hat and tossed it unerringly onto the hat-rack against the wall. He walked past several of the tables and claimed a small one in the corner, pulling out the chair for Cassandra and bowing gracefully to her.

She smiled and inclined her head graciously to him, then seated herself. It had been a long time since anyone had treated her thus. She forced herself to sit calmly, even though her legs still trembled with the desire to flee. She must not arouse his suspicions if she were to convince him to help her.

He took off his ermine-trimmed black cape and hung it on his chair. "Wine and bread!" he called to the serving wench, then sat down and lounged back in his chair, crossing his feet at the ankles.

"You look well," she said. His silvered hair was neatly pulled back, and his expressive mouth was accentuated by a small beard and mustache. His clothes were of dark-red velvet and cream silk, and he wore a large red ruby in his left ear.

"I haven't changed?" he asked, smiling.

"Your taste in attire is as elegant as always, though the fashions have changed somewhat."

He smiled at the serving wench as she set a loaf of bread wrapped in a white napkin on the table.

She smiled back as she brought over a tray with a bottle of wine and two goblets on it, then shot a quick glance at Cassandra and left. He watched her make her way across the room, then turned to Cassandra and said in an undertone, "It's been a long time since I arranged a toga." He pulled out an elaborately jeweled dagger and sliced off some bread, offering her a slice and then taking one for himself.

They watched each other warily - measuring, remembering, wondering what had changed. After she poured the wine, he observed, "You look much the same as always. Even the dress reminds me of times past." His gaze swept over her appreciatively, lingering on the smooth curves under the clinging gown where her cloak lay open.

"It was a costume ball," she explained, glad now that she had chosen the Athena costume after all. She felt an unexpectedly pleasant shiver as the deep tones of his voice reached out to her. Perhaps going to bed with him tonight would not be so difficult after all. She had not let a man get that close to her in many, many years. She preferred more time to prepare herself, to get to know and trust the man, but they had been lovers before. She could be his lover again.

And she could use his attraction to her; at least that hadn't changed in all these years. But first they should talk about him. "You said you were thinking of choosing a new name." She watched him over the edge of her wine goblet.

He shrugged slightly and said, "I am visiting Venice on business now, but Luciano Calaveri has been in Genoa almost ten years. It is time to move on."

"Will you be French?" she asked.

"No, unfortunately not. Jacques Belarmand was killed in Paris just before Luciano Calaveri arrived in Genoa. It's much too soon to go back to that country."

"English?"

He shuddered. "Certainly not! Do you know what they consider to be food in that country?"

She considered the matter. "Spanish then?"

He leaned back in his chair. "I haven't been to Spain since Charlemagne was Emperor." He slapped his hand on the table and took a drink of wine. "Spain it is! Now for a name. How about Juan Sanchez?"

"Oh, no." She shook her head. "That will not do at all. In Spain, the longer your name, the more important you are."

"Juan Sanchez Ramirez?" he asked.

"Better," she acknowledged, "but still not enough for an impressive figure like yourself." She knew he would like that, and he carefully combed his mustache with his fingers, pleased with her comment. "There you are," she said and motioned to the painting above the fireplace; it was of a snarling wolf, companion to the picture of the howling wolf on the sign outside. "The house of the wolf."

He nodded, well-satisfied. "Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez it shall be." He lifted his goblet to her, and they toasted his new name together.

"Will you be leaving for Spain soon?" she asked, while she refilled their goblets.

He nodded. "Soon. Perhaps in the spring. I have a friend near Barcelona."

"A friend?" she asked innocently. Now it was time for the flirtation.

The corners of his brown eyes crinkled as he watched her, and he answered, "He is my business partner."

"Ah." A few drops of wine had been spilled on the table, and she drew circles in it with the tip of an elegant finger. "Would there be room in your life for - another friend?" She touched her finger to her tongue and licked off the wine.

Ramirez smiled a slow lazy smile. "I think there is," he said and lifted his goblet to her in another toast. "Will you accompany me?"

"I think I will," she responded, relieved to have finished the negotiations so quickly. Maybe they could leave tomorrow; she should be safe enough with him tonight. She lifted her cup to him in return and they both drank deeply.

He sighed and set the cup down on the table. "You realize," he said, looking at her from under thick eyebrows, "that you will need to pick a name similar to mine."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, Spain is a most Catholic country. People will talk of us. We must either live there as father and daughter ..."

"That will never work if you look at me in that fashion," she observed. "They will certainly talk then."

"Mmm," he said. "And I might have to speak to suitors who come seeking your hand."

She gave him a disgusted look.

"Or, we could, perhaps, live as husband and wife," he continued cheerfully.

Cassandra put a small smile on her face and looked into her cup. "That is an important decision," she temporized, allowing just a fraction of her very real reluctance to show. She was not ready to put herself in his power, but she knew she had no choice. She forced down her fear and widened her smile as she glanced up at him. "Perhaps we should - sleep - on it, and decide in the morning?"

Ramirez grinned at her and went to rent a room for the night, while Cassandra sipped at her wine to quell her uneasiness. She knew Ramirez was a skilled and tender lover; tonight could be very pleasant if she let it be. She could do that; it would not be nearly so difficult as other things she had done.

Still, she was pleased with their arrangement. She could survive tonight, and later it would be better. It would be good to have an Immortal companion, especially an older one. Ramirez knew the rules of the Game and could take care of himself. Roland was unlikely to challenge an experienced Immortal like Ramirez. He preferred to take on the younger Immortals, especially students. Especially her students.

Roland had gone after her families, too. After he had hunted down and killed the first three mortal families she had joined, Cassandra had been unwilling to risk mortals' lives again. She had taken to living alone, moving every few years, hiding on Holy Ground. She had been alone a long time, skimming along the surface of life, never daring to plunge in, to touch bottom, to take root. Always she moved on, wandered, drifted. Such a very long time. Such a waste. She poured the dregs of the wine in her cup onto the table, and dabbled her fingertips in the dark liquid.

Ramirez returned to the table. "The room is ready."

She wiped the red stains on her hand onto the napkin, then rose smoothly and smiled at him. "Good."

The next morning, Luciano Calaveri and Isadora Caboto left Venice. A few months later, they set sail on the ship _Persephone_, bound for Spain. The passengers Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez and his young and beautiful wife the Senora Maria Caterina Rohas y Ramirez disembarked in Barcelona.

After a few years in Barcelona, they bought an estate near the small seaside town of Mataro. Senor Ramirez soon became known as an outgoing fellow, though they lived quietly and seldom entertained. The townspeople thought Senora Ramirez a quiet, pious woman, perhaps saddened by her lack of children. She gave generously to the poor and sewed beautiful altar cloths for the church. Senora Ramirez took a particular interest in the convent, visiting the sisters frequently and becoming close friends with the prioress.

**

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Asuncion de Nuestra Senora, 1515  
Mataro, Spain  


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**The day was warm, and the bright sunshine made intricate patterns on the floor through the latticed windows. The polished wood furniture gleamed darkly against the pale stone floor, and the rich rugs were patterned in the Moorish style.

Ramirez strode into the hall and walked past the long banquet table. He joined Cassandra where she sat in front of the fireplace, unused now in the heat of summer. Lounging in the carved wooden chair opposite her, he selected an orange from the silver bowl on the low table between them and began peeling it with dexterous fingers.

Cassandra glanced up from the vestment she was embroidering and called to the young lad who was polishing the banquet table. "Roberto! Wine, please." She quirked an eyebrow at Ramirez, who nodded. "For both of us," she finished. Roberto bowed and left the room. Cassandra watched Ramirez, her expression serious.

"Is something wrong?" Ramirez asked, almost done peeling the orange.

Cassandra spoke quietly. "King Ferdinand of Aragon is gravely ill. His daughter Juana..." She shrugged. She did not need to say more. The Queen of Castile was commonly known as Juana the Mad. "Juana's son Charles is only fifteen. There may well be trouble. And the Inquisition is growing in strength." There was something else wrong. The Prioress had told her that Roland was in Spain, working for the Inquisition.

They exchanged a sober look. They had seen times such as these before. Times when everyone was suspect, when no one dared be different. Twelve years was a long time to be in the same place when you never aged.

Roberto returned with a dusky green bottle of wine and two silver goblets on a tray of beaten gold. Cassandra poured the wine, and they sipped slowly. Cassandra continued, "You know how messy successions can be." She knew Ramirez made it a practice to leave countries if there was any doubt as to who should be the next ruler.

Ramirez's mouth twisted in annoyance as he ate an orange section.

Cassandra observed Ramirez's look with satisfaction. It seemed to be working. Good. She added, "If Charles becomes king, they say he will become the Holy Roman Emperor. France will not stand for that. There will be war."

Ramirez spit two seeds into the bowl and swallowed the orange section. "Perhaps we should leave now," he said thoughtfully. "Who knows when Ferdinand will die?"

"Leave to go where?" Cassandra asked. "The war will be here, in France, all over the Italian peninsula."

"Hmmm." He swirled the wine about in his goblet.

"Perhaps not every country will be involved in the war," she said, snipping the thread with her embroidery knife and threading another color onto her needle. "There is Scotland," she suggested, as though the thought had suddenly occurred to her. The prioress had also mentioned a novice who had joined the convent recently. The girl's mother was Spanish, but her father was a lord in Scotland and had an estate high in the hills of that northern land. Cassandra had been most interested and had even asked to speak to the girl.

"Scotland?" he exclaimed dubiously. "Why should we want to go there? It is far to the north, is it not?"

"Yes," she admitted, "but it is said to have great hunting and beautiful lakes." She knew he liked to hunt. "Have you ever been there?" she asked. She knew Ramirez liked to travel, also. He shook his head, and Cassandra said, "And I have not either." She had been to Ireland and to the southern part of Britain over a thousand years before, but she had never gone so far north as Scotland. "Do we need another reason to go?" she asked.

Cassandra could, of course, think of several other reasons. They needed to leave Spain. Roland was hunting her, and Scotland was remote enough that Roland was unlikely to track her there for some time. And most importantly, for the first time in over twenty-seven centuries she had heard some of the words of the prophecy again. The girl in the convent had spoken of the highlands, the northland. She could not ignore that, and she needed to convince Ramirez to go with her.

"Perhaps we should go," he said. "I don't enjoy wars of succession. I had enough of that in Rome." He lifted his cup to her in salute. "To Scotland!"

Cassandra felt relief mixed with frustration, though nothing showed on her face. Always she must work through others! The injunction laid upon her so many years ago left her no choice. She had a sudden satisfying image of holding her sword and swinging it smoothly, cutting off Roland's grinning lying head, being spattered with his blood. Instead, her hand closed gently around the smooth stem of the wine cup, and she glanced at the red wine within. Soon, Roland, soon. She lifted the cup in salute and smiled at Ramirez sweetly. "To the Highlands of Scotland!"

* * *

They left the next spring. They sold their horses and dismissed the servants, then closed the house. Interested neighbors were told that they were going to visit Senora Ramirez's aging mother in Navarre. No, they were not sure when they would return. Senora Rohas was very old, and Senora Ramirez wished to be with her mother in her final days.

They went to the north coast of Spain and took a boat to the southern coast of Ireland. They traveled slowly, enjoying the overland journey to Belfast, then they sailed to Scotland.

The Highlands were fierce and wild, and Ramirez sometimes cursed the cold and the rain, though Cassandra loved the craggy peaks and great forests. They took their time, careful to be polite to the different clans and septs.

In 1518, they spent Christmas as guests of a sept of the Campbell clan and thoroughly enjoyed the extravagant Highland hospitality at that festive time of year. After Bairn's Day they said farewell to their hosts and traveled inland. On the third day, they found shelter for the night in an abandoned hut along the shore of a long narrow loch. They settled their horses inside, then climbed into the loft above. They spent the long night talking and making love and sleeping and making love again. The morning dawned bright and clear, a rare day of pale blue sky and glittering sun, while a full moon hung pale and ghostly above the snow-topped peaks.

Ramirez looked out the small window. "I wonder when it's going to rain," he said pensively.

Cassandra came to stand beside him. "What do you mean? The sky is clear."

"It doesn't matter what the sky looks like," Ramirez said. "It's always going to rain in this country, or it's just finished raining, or it is raining. Forty days and forty nights of rain were enough for the Lord God and Noah, but these Highland savages cannot count." He smiled as he said it, though, for the day was indeed fine. "Let's go for a walk along the loch and leave the horses be."

Cassandra happily agreed, and they tethered the horses outside the hut and walked down to the loch. The air was cold and crisp, with a hint of the smell of the sea in the wind, and tiny wavelets lapped at the shore. When they reached the hard-packed sand, Cassandra suggested with a mischievous grin, "Shall we race to the rock, that big one down the beach?"

Ramirez smiled back, and they were off. Seagulls flew up in alarm and scolded from above as they raced past. They ran until the breath burned in their lungs, and Ramirez tackled her just as Cassandra reached out to touch the rock. They fell to the sand, and Ramirez pulled her to him, laughing. After a long eager kiss, he pulled back and suddenly scanned the hillsides above them, intent. "There," he whispered, "the deer."

Cassandra looked and saw a majestic red deer, beautiful and lordly as he watched them from the hillside. They both inhaled slowly, feeling that tenuous connection with all life that was their birthright as Immortals. After a long moment the deer turned and disappeared into the trees.

"We need meat," Ramirez commented. "I'll go hunting today."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed. "I need to gather supplies as well." She smiled invitingly at Ramirez. "Should we attend to the food first, or other hungers?"

He grinned but shook his head. "Food, I think. There's not much daylight this time of year. I'll see you at the hut later."

He gave her a quick kiss, and she watched him stride off to the hut for his hunting gear. Cassandra started up the hill, intent on her gathering. The ground was frozen, and the grasses showed silver and gray as they bowed before the wind, but she knew how to find food.

Small bushes held berries, frozen and sweet. Underneath the great trees were caches of nuts, the hard work of the squirrels. She even found a honey-hive, hidden within the hollow of a great beech tree. The bees were too sleepy with cold to notice her foraging. She wrapped the dripping honeycomb in her kerchief and carried the food in her apron. The gathering took longer than she had thought it would; it was almost dark when she returned to the hut.

Ramirez returned a short time later with a dead deer over his shoulders, and they set to work preparing the evening meal. After they had eaten, Ramirez watched her as she combed out her hair in front of the fire.

Cassandra set down her comb and joined him on the pallet. "Should we attend to the other hungers now?"

Ramirez smiled and reached for her. "I think I like being in the Highlands."

* * *

A winter storm moved in that night, and the wind blew fiercely. Freezing rain and sleet kept them inside, and it was several days before Cassandra could go gathering again. This time she went farther into the forest and came to a clearing where an old woman was sitting on a fallen log.

"Good day to you!" Cassandra called. "May I be of help?"

"Good day, my beauty." The old woman's voice crackled like dry leaves, but her eyes were sharp and blue as the winter sky. They took note of Cassandra's embroidered gown, the ruffles showing at her throat and wrists, the generous mouth and burnished hair. "You are not from here."

They certainly are direct here in the Highlands, thought Cassandra. "Indeed no, grandmother, I have not been here long."

"I thought not. There's not many as would greet me so fair and offer me help." At Cassandra's puzzled look, she added, "Call me a witch, some do." She nodded her head contentedly. "There's those say I work spells." She smiled a little, showing her few remaining teeth, and pulled her faded gray cloak more closely around her shoulders.

"And do you?"

"Oh, for some, I will. They like a bit of magic." She peered more closely at Cassandra. "You know about that." She nodded again. "Mostly they come for the cures, though sometimes the lasses want a bit more help. I suspect you know about that as well."

Her bright blue eyes traveled over Cassandra's slim figure. "Found a newborn babe just t'other day, left nearby the path, here in the forest. I gave the wee one to a family what will care for it, down in the village of Glenfinnan there." She shook her head slightly. "'Twas not the first babe I've found left alone."

"It's a hard thing to be without a family." Cassandra knew that at least. "The child will be happy there."

"Like as not, but maybe not. I'm not one to tell the future."

Cassandra did not respond to that, and the old woman asked after a moment, "Why come you here, to the Highlands?"

An easy answer sprang to her lips, but she reconsidered as she looked at the old woman who regarded her with such an air of calm certainty. "I am waiting," Cassandra said. "Waiting for a child to be born."

"But not the bairn I found, eh?"

"No." Cassandra's answer was swift. "The child I seek will be born on the winter solstice."

"That's half a moon past. Could be you have a long wait." She stared at Cassandra expectantly.

Cassandra gave the smallest of shrugs. "It matters not. I will wait."

The old woman nodded as if satisfied. "My name is Brigit, though now I am called Lady to my face, and Witch behind my back. I serve the people hereabouts. Been here most my life; suspect I'll spend what's left of it here as well." She cocked her head to one side. "You serve, too, do you not?"

Cassandra nodded, surprised and gratified to find one of the sisterhood in such a remote place. Apparently at least one of the schools she had started in Ireland and Anglia had survived in some fashion over the centuries, had somehow managed to escape Roland, and the Vikings and Saxons and the Danes, and the wars, and the Church. "I serve."

"Aye, well, 'tis a hard taskmaster we serve sometimes. Hard for us, and hard for them." Brigit sighed and nodded again, and her eyes lost some of their brightness. "Hard indeed." She looked compassionately at Cassandra. "It's been very hard for you, I'll warrant, and harder still to come."

Cassandra looked away, uneasy with the unaccustomed sympathy. The path she walked was her own, harder than others' paths perhaps, certainly longer. It was a path of her own making; she had set her feet on it long ago and could not turn back now.

Brigit patted the log beside her. "Come sit beside me, sister." The two sat together, discussing herbs and healing plants, until the old woman said, "Come with me, my beauty," and Cassandra followed her home.

"This way," Brigit said and walked past an ancient stone pillar near a grove of holly trees.

Cassandra stopped, reaching out a trembling hand to touch the carvings on the rock. It had been many years indeed since she had seen that symbol.

Brigit paused and said, "That's been standing some time, eh? From the old ones, the woman here before me said. The spring is a sacred place."

Holy Ground, thought Cassandra, and marked by the sign of the Sisterhood. She closed her eyes briefly in relief and thanksgiving. The Goddess had led her here; this was the place she was meant to be. "Yes," agreed Cassandra, tracing the triple crescents, "from the old ones."

Brigit beckoned again, and they walked side by side on the path that wound through the ancient woods. They walked between two huge oaks, and Cassandra's feet rolled unsteadily on the thousands of acorns dropped from the mighty trees.

A spring bubbled from a cleft in a great gray rock, filling a large oval pool with dark water. The graceful sweep of rowan branches showed white against the darkness of the pine trees which grew tall and straight around the pool. The water was warm, and tendrils of steam rose from it into the cold air. The bare branches of the trees made a network of lacy shadows, and the gleam of white pebbles shone dimly at the bottom.

The old woman paused and bowed to the guardians of the spring, then knelt and dipped her hands in and sprinkled the water on the large gray rock. Cassandra followed her actions, and they bowed again. Still silent, they returned to the cot, crossing over the slow stream that overflowed from the pool and trickled through the forest to join the river that led to the loch below.

* * *

Cassandra went back to Brigit the next day, while Ramirez went to visit his friend The MacLeod in Dunvegan Castle. Ramirez had friends in many places. All through the winter months, Brigit taught Cassandra the language and legends of the local people, and the plant lore of the Highlands. When Brigit died early that summer, Cassandra buried her near the spring, singing the ancient prayer of the Sisterhood over her grave. She would miss Brigit; it had been good to have a sister again.

When the old witch of Donan Woods died, her apprentice became the new witch, as had happened time and time again. And so Cassandra found herself to be the witch of Donan Woods, supplying medicines and herbal remedies to the village folk, listening to their tales and troubles.

Ramirez joined her in the cot, and they decided to rebuild the small structure into a larger, more comfortable dwelling. The work occupied them all summer, and Cassandra was glad when it was finished. She stood before the tall stone pillar set at the end of the yard outside the cottage and carefully traced the carving on it.

Ramirez's large hand joined hers as her fingers followed the path. "Shall we trace it together?" His voice sounded smooth and deep next to her ear, slightly amused, and his breath was warm on her neck.

She froze, then forced herself to relax into his nearness. The soft velvet of his doublet felt warm against her bare arms. He had already been nearby, so she had not felt the warning prickle of the approach of an Immortal, but she had not realized he had come to stand right behind her. He had a disconcerting way of being able to get close to her before she realized it.

"It does seem fitting," she acknowledged. Together they traced the edges of the three crescent moons and the interwoven symbols.

"It's an unusual carving," he noted. "The three moons usually represent the three Goddesses, but they're in an odd formation here. And I don't recognize this." He tapped the triangle in the center. "It may be a rune."

Cassandra recognized it very well, but did not say so. "The stone looks very old," she observed. "This has been a sacred place for a long time."

"I've noticed other stones like it in the forest, placed nearby. It could be confusing if you don't know which pillar you're looking for."

"We seem to have found what we were looking for." She turned away from the pillar and looked across the small clearing at the newly built cottage.

"It is a fine cottage." His tone was judicious and pleased. They had used the rocks left from the old cot and hauled more rocks from the hills to build a snug and comfortable home. "Built by a master."

"And a mistress," she added.

"Oh, yes. Mustn't forget the mistress." She leaned back against him comfortably, and his arms tightened around her. He placed a quick kiss behind one ear, then a slower and more lingering kiss behind the other.

"It is a fine cottage," she repeated, looking over the results of their labor. "Built to last."

"Well, so are we," he said, and his lower lip traced a slow path along the edge of her ear.

"What is the longest you have ever lived in one place?" she asked.

"Hmmm?" His teeth made tiny nibbles on her ear lobe, and his hands shifted upward.

"What is the longest you have ever lived in one place?" she repeated, placing her hands over his roving ones. She knew he would be willing to talk first. He had told her once that it was a wise man who let a woman talk when she wanted to, if only to make sure of her undivided attention later. And he was right. Later she would give him her undivided attention, but for now she wished to talk. "I mean the same house, the same building, a place not on Holy Ground."

"Ah." His hands stilled, and he lifted his head. "I believe it was in India. Or was it Japan? About thirty years, I think, though I left from time to time to travel. And you?" he asked.

Cassandra smiled to herself, impressed. It was a rare man indeed who understood that when a woman asked him a question, she was often more interested in being asked the question herself than she was in any answer he might give. Ramirez was such a man. She had truly enjoyed their time together. "I'm not sure," she said. "At the beginning, we were in tents, moving all the time ..." She stopped, not wanting to think about that, then continued, "Perhaps it was in Babylon, about twenty years I think. Usually I move in fifteen years." Usually it was much more often than that, but she did not want to tell Ramirez.

"Fifteen years is as long as I usually stay, too. Or ten."

She turned in his arms and looked up at him. "I believe I will like staying here." She paused. "For a while." She smiled at him fondly. "And you, will you stay here?"

He smiled back, his brown eyes warm, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that special way of his. "Yes, I believe I will stay here, too, for a while."

"Good." She knew he would probably leave soon, within a few years. She would be sorry to see him go. There was no great love between them, but there was friendship and tenderness and caring, and those were rare indeed, in both their lives. Cassandra touched his cheek gently and said, "I'm glad to have known you through the years, Xanthos-Lucius-Ramirez. Tak-Ne."

He smiled as she listed his names, and he tightened his arms around her. "I'm glad to have known you, Cassia-Isadora-Maria Caterina. Cassandra."

Cassandra smiled in return and continued, "I'm glad we've had time to be together, both in Rome, and during these last few years. It's good to have a companion." She added softly, "A friend."

"Yes. A companion." He kissed her softly on the forehead. "And a friend." She blinked quickly and shook her head, trying to focus on him. His clothes kept changing color, and his face flickered.

"What is it?" Ramirez demanded. "What do you see?"

Cassandra blinked again. "You, and rocks."

Ramirez kept his voice deliberately cheerful. "I've carried a great many rocks lately."

"Not here. Not now. There were no trees." Cassandra tried to recall the image. "It was an open place, a tower." She shook her head. "It's gone." She shivered slightly, though the day was warm.

Ramirez shrugged. "No matter. This cottage is finished, and I, for one, will carry no more rocks today." He smiled at her, trying to dispel the mood.

She smiled back in invitation, also eager to forget the vision. There was nothing she could do about it. "As you say, the cottage is finished. Should we enter?"

"Oh, yes." His smile turned into a grin. "I will enter."

"Oh, will you?" Her tone was playful and challenging, and she disengaged herself from his arms. "You'll have to catch me first." She picked up her skirts and ran, long legs flashing. Ramirez followed and caught up with her at the door. He lifted her in his arms and kissed her soundly. "For good luck," he explained and carried her across the threshold.

Ramirez stayed for another year, and then left to join Charles I of Spain, who was by then established on his throne. Cassandra remained at the cottage. Though she missed Ramirez a great deal, she came to appreciate and even enjoy the solitude and the serenity of her new life. Sometimes she dreamed of grassy windswept plains or warm sunshine on blue sea, but she also dreamed of her new home-the ancient trees of peace and stillness, the carpet of moss underfoot, the canopy of leaves and branches overhead. She was content enough; it was a better life than she usually had, better than she had any right to expect.

And finally, she was where she needed to be. All she had to do now was wait, as she had waited so many times before.

* * *

_**Continued in chapter 2, wherein a Highland barbarian meets the Witch of Donan Woods  
**_


	2. HF2: Chapter 2

**Hope Forgotten II**

**WITCH**

* * *

Chapter 2

* * *

**St. John's Day, 1592**  
**Donan Woods, in the Highlands of Scotland  


* * *

**Cassandra waited. The mist hung heavy in the trees, clinging to every leaf and branch. The early morning air was chill and damp, a perfect time for rabbits to be out. Cassandra crouched in the shadows of a bush and held tight to the string of the noose. A small rabbit, fat with summertime feeding, crept into the hidden loop of string. Cassandra jerked sharply, and it was caught.

She dispatched it quickly with a blow to the head, then gutted it and hung it from her belt. She wrapped her dark-green cloak more closely around her and went to find the mushrooms that showed pale against the dark forest floor. Her long skirt of light-green wool brushed against graceful drooping ferns and set them swaying. When her basket was full, she followed the faint path through the forest to her cottage, enjoying the birds' songs and the rich smells of the earth.

At the edge of the clearing, she paused and circled the cottage. She did not feel the presence of an Immortal, and the spring was Holy Ground, but mortals could be dangerous, too. She had been attacked by them before. The birds still sang, the ground around the cottage looked undisturbed, and a thin spiral of smoke rose from the chimney. The fine strand of white wool she always looped in front of the door shone against the darkened wood; it had not been moved. Satisfied, she entered the cottage and placed the basket of mushrooms on the table, then she picked up the bucket next to the door and went to fetch water.

After she had carried wood back to the cottage and set the water to boil, she fed the sheep and gathered eggs from the chickens. The morning mist had gone now, blown away by the breeze, and the seldom-seen sunshine was warm and welcome. She left the door of the cottage open, and leaf-filtered sunlight glowed on the wooden floor.

The water was boiling; she made raspberry tea and a bowl of porridge flavored with tiny wild strawberries. She sat down at the table to eat her breakfast, her feet stretched out to reach the sunshine. She and Ramirez had often sat at this table, enjoying the warmth of the fire during chill nights, eating dinner, playing chess or cards, or just talking of the many things they had seen and the places they had been. She felt the familiar surge of sadness at the memory. Ramirez had been dead now for fifty years. The Kurgan, his ancient enemy, had taken his head and received his Quickening. She had seen it in a dream of blood and lightning: all the power and life-essence of Ramirez flowing out to the Kurgan as the tower crumbled and the rocks fell about them. She had awakened cold and trembling from the dream, but she had not been surprised. She had seen Ramirez in the tower in her vision, and her visions always seemed to mean death.

Her tea had grown cold, and she finished it quickly, then set about cleaning the cottage. She was singing a rather improper Italian love song and vigorously scrubbing the table when she heard a voice outside.

"Lady?" a woman called, nervous and uncertain. "Lady, be you there?"

Cassandra quickly took off her apron and adjusted the lacing on her bodice and fluffed the ruffles at her throat and wrists. While witches might be seen cutting plants or stirring something in a cauldron, they did not do such mundane things as scrub tables. Giving her long hair a quick combing with her fingers, Cassandra emerged from the dwelling, her face composed, her walk graceful and unhurried.

The woman swallowed nervously as Cassandra approached, then bobbed a quick curtsy. "Good day to you, Lady." She stayed on the far side of the carved rock pillar.

"Good day." Cassandra pitched her voice to soothe and looked carefully at the young woman. She was perhaps twenty, about seven months along in pregnancy. Her light brown hair was only partially hidden by her kertch, the linen cap that the women of the clans wore after they married. Escaped curls framed her face, and her light-blue eyes were wide and uneasy. The pattern on the plaid about her shoulders was a local one, and her skirt and blouse were of the cloth commonly woven in the local village. But the brooch on her cloak and the rings on her fingers were gold, not brass, and she wore shoes in the summer. No poor crofter's wife here.

"How may I help you?" Cassandra inquired. "Are you ill? Is it the babe that troubles you?" Witches were supposed to know everything.

"Aye, the babe!"

Cassandra nodded at her, waiting.

"It's that my teeth are sore, and Ould Margaret, she's the midwife, did say that with every babe I'll lose a tooth, and I've no wish to go toothless so soon, and she do say there's nothing to be done about it. I thought mayhap ..." Her fingers moved uneasily on the handle of her basket, then she said hopefully, "I brought you some bread." She took out a large bundle wrapped in cloth from her basket.

"May I ask who gives the gift?" Cassandra asked.

The young woman hesitated. Cassandra knew that she was afraid to give her name. Everyone knew that to give a witch your name was to give her power over you. She was sure that the local priest had often warned of the snares of the Devil and his servants, most especially the witches. The young woman looked nervously into Cassandra's eyes, and Cassandra made sure that her expression was gentle and compassionate.

The woman chewed at her lower lip, then stopped and looked straight at Cassandra. "I am Aileen MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod."

"I thank you, Aileen MacLeod," said Cassandra gravely, accepting the gift with pleasure. She did well enough with the sheep and the chickens, but she seldom had bread. Grain did not grow well in the forest. She placed the wrapped bread on a tree stump. Cassandra walked past the pillar and extended her hands. "May I?"

Aileen hesitated, then nodded. Cassandra felt the gentle swelling of the abdomen, the curve of hidden life, and smiled reassuringly at her. "You bear a strong child. The father of the babe, he is a strong man?" She needed information about life in the village.

Aileen smiled back. "Aye, Malcolm is one of the best fighters in the village. His brother is pleased to have him at his side when he calls the clan to fight."

"His brother is the chieftain for the clan?" That explained the rich ornaments.

"Aye, since the May-fair. Their father passed away then, God rest his soul." Aileen crossed herself and continued, "He gave his sword to Ian. That's Malcolm's older brother, ye ken," she explained. "Demanded to be carried out of his cot on his deathbed, the old man did, and then handed Ian the sword of the MacLeods in front of all the folk of the village. He died right then and there, with Ian's hand and his both still on the hilt. It was a grand moment," she added with great satisfaction.

"To be sure," murmured Cassandra, smiling to herself. She held the other woman's hands, checking for swelling, and looked closely at her eyes. "Open your mouth, please." Aileen obliged, and Cassandra looked within. The gums were slightly puffy, but she still had all her teeth and none were blackened.

"I will be back." Cassandra went to her cottage. She did not invite Aileen to follow; she knew the clanswoman would not wish to enter a witch's abode. She returned with a twig and a small bag of dried powdered nettles and handed them to Aileen. "Take a small pinch from the bag and mix it in with hot water every morning, then drink it."

"What's to be done with the stick?" she asked warily.

"When you are done eating, chew on the end of the stick a little. 'Tis a common willow twig. You can cut yourself another when this is worn. And you should eat as many greens as you can."

"I've been hungry for them," she admitted, "chewing grass stems and the like."

"The babe is letting you know what it needs. Listen to it."

"I will then. And, I won't lose my teeth?" Aileen asked anxiously.

"No." Cassandra shook her head. "You needn't lose a tooth with every babe." How pleasant it would be to live a life where the main concern was loose teeth, to live with a family, to bear children and have friends. Cassandra swallowed her bitterness and her anger and smiled calmly at the young woman. She knew such a life was not for her.

"My thanks to you, Lady." Aileen's smile was wide with relief this time, and she bobbed another curtsy. She placed the items in her basket, then said, "Oh, I near forgot. Mary, she's Ian's wife, is just starting a babe, and she canna eat of the foods. They all make her retch. Do you have something for her? Ould Margaret says that's just the way of it."

"Well, Ould Margaret is right, but perhaps there's something to be done. Wait here." Cassandra went back to her cottage once more, and then came back and handed Aileen two cloth bracelets and another pouch, this one filled with dried raspberry leaves and a little chamomile. "She may wear these bracelets, tied tightly around her wrists, and make a tea from what's in this pouch. She's to drink it in the morning, and whenever she feels queer."

Aileen nodded and added the bracelets and the pouch to her items. "My thanks, Lady," she said as she gave a final small curtsy. She lifted her basket and set off down the path.

Cassandra watched until she disappeared from sight, then reached out to rest her hand against the carving on the pillar. The stone was rough beneath her fingers, but curiously warm to the touch, as it had been that day many years ago when she and Ramirez had stood there.

She dusted her hand briskly on her skirt, then looked closely at the cottage she and Ramirez had built. The roof would need mending soon, and a few stones were loose here and there. Best to take care of that soon, before winter.

After she had finished cleaning the cottage, she boiled the eggs and cut a thick slice of the bread and spread it with honey. She sat on a bench outside and enjoyed the bread and two of the eggs while sitting in the sunshine. She licked the honey off her fingers and then set off through the forest with her basket, singing an ancient tune. It was midsummer, a good time to gather herbs and food.

Several hours later, her basket contained yarrow, chamomile, and onions, and she knelt at the edge of the meadow to pick the small tender leaves of fresh green cleavers. A sudden movement caught her eye and she looked up quickly, her hand going to the hilt of her sword. She watched for a moment, then relaxed and put the cleaver leaves in her basket. Apparently she was not the only one to go gathering today. The midwife Margaret was on the far side of the meadow.

Cassandra straightened and started to go into the forest, but Margaret had seen her and was walking to her with quick short strides, crushing the grasses and flowers beneath her feet.

"Hold there!" she called, though Cassandra stood still. When she was closer, Cassandra could see the short tufts of her gray hair that had come loose from her cap and stood out around her lined face. The midwife narrowed her pale-blue eyes and stared at Cassandra, then looked her up and down. She didn't appear to like what she saw, for her lips compressed into a thin line and she put her hands on her ample hips. "Who do you ken you are?" she demanded, an angry scowl revealing her few yellowed teeth.

"What do you mean, Goodwife?" Cassandra kept her voice calm, her face composed.

"I asked you, who do you ken you are, giving advice to a lass who's about to become a mother. Have you borne a child?"

"No."

"Nae, I thought not." Her voice was triumphant. "I've borne eight of my own, and six of them lived, and I've helped birth many more. Have you e'en been at a birth, you with your fancy airs and outlander ways?"

"I have seen many births." Cassandra had in fact been a midwife in many times and in many places, but she doubted that Margaret wanted to hear that.

"Oh, you've seen birth, have you? 'Tis not the same to see it," she said derisively. "You've no right to be putting yourself where you're not wanted, and you're not wanted here. We take care of our own, we do. Why, I helped birth Aileen, and I've treated her ills ever since she were a wee bairn. You've no cause to be bothering her, and filling her head with tales."

"You are right, Goodwife," Cassandra agreed. "I'll not bother her, nor tell her things which are not true." Turning quickly, she disappeared into the forest, leaving the other woman standing there, her mouth agape and her anger unabated.

Cassandra walked swiftly, breathing slowly, willing away the tension from the confrontation. She had survived war, torture, rape, slavery, witch hunts, and centuries of facing combat to the death. Still she was disturbed by the hostility of mortals, their jealousy, their fear.

"Only to serve," she reminded herself in a murmur, repeating one of the vows of the Sisterhood. "We exist only to serve." She took another calming breath. Their anger and fear were not personal, she knew. They feared those who were different, those who were strange to their ways. She would always be different, and she was forever a stranger, in strange lands. She was an Immortal, born nearly three thousand years ago. Her people were gone, her land forgotten.

At the clearing, she stopped in the shadow of an ancient oak and set the basket down slowly. The front door to the cottage stood ajar, and fresh horse droppings lay in the path to the shed. She was about to circle around to the other side of the cottage to see how many horses were in the shed, when a well-remembered prickling at the back of her neck assailed her. There was at least one Immortal in her cabin.

He had felt her too, for a dark shape was silhouetted in the doorway. Cassandra evaluated the situation. She could not see his features, but he appeared tall and well built. She could see a scabbard at his side. He knew she was out there, but he had not yet located her among the trees. Perhaps she could move to the back ...

"Cassandra!" he called. She stopped, but did not reveal herself. The voice sounded friendly, but it could be the start of a challenge. It wouldn't be the first time an "old friend" had tried to take her head. "Cassandra, it's Connor," he called in the Gaelic language. He stepped out of the doorway into the light. "Connor MacLeod."

In a land of tartan-clad men who proudly proclaimed their clans by badges and ornaments and color, his belt buckle and shoulder brooch were unadorned. His breacan was not worthy of the name plaid, being solid gray. It wrapped around him, falling in graceful folds from his left shoulder and secured at his waist by a plain leather belt.

The belt also served as a holding place for sporran and dirk, while his scabbard hung from the belt that crossed over his shoulder. Under his breacan he wore a faded green sark, the long woolen tunic that served as both shirt and sleeping attire. Simple shoes of well-worn leather were on his feet, and the lacing of his sark hung open at his throat. His light brown hair was uncombed, and his hands were by his sides, empty except for a piece of bread.

She gave an exasperated sigh, set down her basket and drew her sword, then came into the clearing. He stood there, smiling slightly, while she advanced toward him, her sword at the ready. He was still smiling when she stepped close beside him and brought the sword up to his neck.

His smile disappeared. "Cassandra," he breathed.

She could tell he was trying not to move his throat much when he spoke. She did not move her sword away. "How much bread did you eat?" she demanded.

"What?"

"How much?" She shifted her hands, and the edge of the blade turned just enough to nick the skin.

He swallowed, and the sword cut deeper. "Cassandra!" He started to turn his head to see her face, but the sword was very sharp indeed. He looked at her from the corner of his eye.

She did not smile. "How much did you eat?" she repeated. She noticed that the piece in his hand was a crust. She had eaten the other crust for lunch. "The whole loaf?" She shifted her hands again, and the edge of the blade twisted in the cut.

"No!" he gasped.

She eased the sword off a little.

"There's one slice left," he continued.

"One slice!" She considered the matter and said very quietly, "One slice. I'll be fair. You left me one slice," she purred, as she tightened her grip again, "and I'll give you one slice." She stepped back and started to bring her blade around in a smooth and deadly arc.

Connor dropped flat on the ground and swung his legs around to knock her off her feet. She jumped straight up, and he missed her, but he kept moving and rolled himself away while she continued the slashing movement of her sword, cutting into his shoulder. When she landed and regained her footing, he was in a fighting crouch in front of her with his sword drawn, blood flowing freely down his arm.

"Oh, I am so glad you came back, Connor," she said mockingly.

They circled each other, waiting to see who would make the first move. His gray eyes were cold and watchful. Save for color, she knew they matched her own precisely. He attacked first, a quick and forceful blow that would have nearly taken off her arm had she not twisted away and brought her own sword up to block it. The strokes were quick and furious, he attacking and she defending, until they separated and circled again, breathing hard. This time both of them were bleeding.

"Do we have to fight over this?" he asked.

"You steal my food, and expect me not to object?" She attacked suddenly, the tip of her sword coming within an inch of his eyes. He defended himself well, but she pressed her advantage and laid open his left thigh with an ugly gaping wound.

He hissed in pain, then said, "Object, yes. Take my head, no." He moved slowly, limping, but his eyes were still intent. "Besides, I brought you something better to eat."

"Better?" Her sword never wavered. "What's better than fresh baked bread?"

"Oranges."

"Oranges?" She straightened. "You have oranges?"

He smiled at her, a feral grin. "Indeed I have. Three luscious oranges, straight from sunny Spain. Am I forgiven?"

"Well - if they're Spanish oranges, perhaps I'll forgive you." She stepped back and watched him.

He straightened too, and took a step back and flung his hair away from his face.

She glanced over at him while she wiped her scimitar clean. Connor was wiping his sword, too. It was Ramirez's katana, she noted with sadness, but at least it was a weapon in the hand of a friend, not a trophy in the hand of an enemy. She looked at him and inclined her head. He nodded back and they sheathed their weapons at the same time. Their wounds were almost healed, though the gash on his leg still dripped blood.

Cassandra retrieved her basket and started walking to the cottage with Connor at her side. "What were you thinking, letting me get so close to you with my sword drawn?" she demanded.

"You would not -," he began.

"Oh, would I not?" Cassandra challenged him. "How do you know?"

He was silent, thinking about that.

"And what did you mean, calling out my name like that? How did you know it was me?"

"This is your house; I was expecting you."

"You were expecting me," she said in disgust. "And, if it had been another Immortal, then he would have been expecting me, too. The spring is Holy Ground, but he could have come looking for me when I was in the forest, or come back when I was at home."

Connor stopped walking, a stricken look on his face, and she decided the lesson had sunk in enough. For now. "Come along," she said, as she gave him a sidelong glance. "You have gotten better at fighting," she acknowledged.

"I've been practicing," he said.

"Good. You must remember though, a sword is not the only danger." She turned to face him in the doorway. "There is trickery, and betrayal." She smiled at him warmly. "It truly is good to see you again, Connor." Very good indeed, she thought. To have three visitors in one day had never happened before. Perhaps the waiting was almost over.

He nodded, and the barest hint of a smile touched his mouth, but the real warmth was in his eyes. "Even if I ate your bread?"

"As long as you have the oranges," she warned.

"Oh, yes. I have the oranges." He followed her, bending his head a little as he went through the doorway. The cottage had not changed much from his visit nearly half a century ago. Her spinning wheel and baskets of yarn and colored thread were near her chair in front of the fire, and things in various stages of desiccation hung from the ceiling.

"This is new," he commented, running his hand along the polished wood of the four-poster bed. Bed hangings the color of rich wine hung to the floor.

"I had it shipped to Inverness from the Netherlands." Cassandra put another log on the fire and stirred the contents of the stew pot. The rabbit meat was nearly done; the barley and the onions tender. She added to Connor, "It took me a boat, two horses, and three trips to get all of it here."

"That must have cost you a pretty penny."

"Should I be saving the money for my old age?" she asked. He snorted in derision. She stood next to him and ran her hand over the smooth coverlet. "I see no reason to live uncomfortably when I can live comfortably." She walked over to the alcove near the fireplace and pulled back a curtain, revealing a smaller bed. "This one is comfortable too, if you'd like to sleep here."

"It'll be a sight better than the rocks I slept on last night. My thanks." He sniffed at the fresh scent of the bedclothes then looked at her quizzically. "Do you have guests often?"

A small smile crossed her face. "No." She sat down at the table and washed the mushrooms and the cleavers, then started to chop the mushrooms.

He wandered over to the small window on the far side of the fireplace. "You bought glass?" he asked as he traced the circles in the amber pane.

"Yes. The wooden shutters do well enough to keep out the wind, but they keep out the light, too." She placed the mushrooms, the cleavers, and some thyme leaves into a small wooden bowl and carried them to the hearth and added them to the stew pot.

He sat down at the table. "How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Here, in this cottage?" she asked. At his nod, she continued, "Ramirez and I built it in the summer of 1519. I came here a little before that though, in the winter. There was a much smaller cot here then." She picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the stew.

"We arrived about the same time then," Connor commented. "I was born in 1518, on the day after Hogmanay."

"Yes, I remember." She had made it a point to ask the date of his birth when she had first met him. He was not the one. She remembered something else then, too. She turned suddenly, the spoon still in her hand. "Do you know, the day I met her, the woman who lived here said she had taken a foundling to the village some days before." She thought back to that day, many years ago. "That foundling must have been you!" Cassandra was pleased by this discovery.

She could tell Connor was not. He was staring at the table, seeming to take great interest in the grain of the wood. She knew Connor's parents had told him he was a foundling, but it was hard to be both a foundling and an outcast. In a land where men declared themselves by name and clan, the banished were at least allowed to state: "I was born a MacLeod." Connor could not claim even that.

"Is the food ready?" he asked abruptly, looking up from the table.

"Almost," Cassandra said, coming over to sit across from him.

"You seem to eat well enough here," Connor said, nodding at the food-stuff stored in the rafters. "Do you gather and grow most of your own food?"

Cassandra nodded. "I gather and trap from the forest. I have a sheep, and she provides milk and cheese, and the chickens give eggs. And meat, eventually."

"Just one sheep?"

"I take her to visit the villagers' ram during mating season. He doesn't seem to mind one more ewe."

"I should say not," Connor answered with a small grin.

She smiled in return and continued, "I keep a small garden, too, for herbs and such. The villagers bring me gifts from time to time. As you know," she said pointedly, looking at the last slice of bread which lay on the table between them.

Connor quickly pushed it over to her side of the table.

She rewarded him with the hint of a smile, then over to the hearth. She spooned rabbit stew into two bowls, then set them on the table and sat down.

"It smells good," Connor said, as he picked up a spoon. Then he looked in the bowl and poked at the food. "What are these dark things?"

"Mushrooms."

"Mushrooms?" Connor said, horrified.

"Yes, mushrooms." Cassandra picked up her spoon. "Is there something wrong?"

"Mushrooms are poison. I'll tell you that for nothing!"

"Not the mushrooms I pick," Cassandra answered tartly. "Besides, it's not as though they could kill you. For long."

He stared at his bowl suspiciously.

"I'll eat first," she said, "if that will make you feel better."

He watched her eat three spoonfuls with obvious enjoyment and then took a small bite himself. After the first spoonful he ate eagerly.

Cassandra smiled a little and returned to the topic of food supplies. "Sometimes I go into the villages during a fair to trade for food and other items."

"That must be an odd sight-the witch trading for pins and needles."

"Oh, I don't go as a witch," Cassandra said. "I wear my habit."

"Your habit?" Connor questioned. "A nun's habit?"

"Yes," she said, blowing on her stew to cool it.

"Where did you get a nun's habit?" he demanded.

"At a convent, of course. I told you it was mine." She dipped the piece of bread in the stew and soaked up some of the broth.

He choked on his food. "You were a nun?" he sputtered.

She waited until he had taken a sip of water and stopped coughing. "Yes, I was a nun." She had been many things in her life: nun and tavern wench, priestess and prostitute, thief and artisan, actress and seamstress, slave and countess, healer and warrior. In several thousand years there had been time and need to be many things. "Is there something strange about my being a nun?"

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. He took another bite and chewed it thoroughly before speaking again. "Nay, I suppose not. I'd never thought of you as having a vocation."

"I didn't take lifetime vows, if that's what you mean. I was a lay sister at the convent." She raised an eyebrow at him. "It's a very restful way to spend twenty years, you know. You might want to consider it sometime."

"Spending twenty years in a nunnery?" He grinned at her, and his eyebrows rose suggestively.

"You wouldn't get much rest that way!" she acknowledged, grinning back at him. "I did have in mind the male equivalent." She took a sip of water. "Convents and monasteries are on Holy Ground, and many of us take refuge there from time to time. Some even stay. There are many things you can study when you're not distracted by other concerns. I learned quite a bit from the herbalist there."

"What name did you take?" he asked, scooping the last bite of stew from his bowl.

Her lips tightened, and she picked up the last bite of bread. "The Mother Superior assigned names to the novices and lay sisters."

Connor pressed the point. "And what name did the Mother Superior assign to you?" She started chewing. "Cassandra?"

She mumbled an answer through the bread. Connor, a grin tugging at his mouth, asked again. "I didn't understand."

Cassandra swallowed, then said flatly, "My religious name was Sister Polycarp."

Connor's chuckles of laughter earned him a withering look as Cassandra rose and carried the empty bowls over to the bucket. She rinsed the bowls quickly and dried them.

Connor recovered his composure and came to stand beside her. "I'm surprised you put up with it for twenty years."

She smiled ruefully. "I did consider moving to another convent just to get a different name. That seemed a bit extreme though, so I stayed." Roland had been near. She gave an elegant shrug. "I've put up with much worse, and for much longer." She picked up their cups and the jug of water. "Shall we eat the oranges outside?"

Connor carried the oranges in a wooden bowl and followed her outside. They sat on the bench built into the wall of the cottage, enjoying the late sunshine of midsummer. "I haven't had an orange since Ramirez and I lived in Spain," she said, feeling the familiar flare of sadness at the mention of his name. She still missed him. "Wherever did you get them?" Cassandra reached for one of the oranges and held it in her hands, inhaling the slightly spicy scent. The skin of the orange was a little shriveled, but when she opened it the sections oozed juice.

"A ship had put into port the day before I left. They had fair winds from Spain. I made good time getting here, too. There's not been much rain." Connor peeled his own orange. "I had already spent most of my money to buy the horse. These oranges cost me nearly all the rest."

Cassandra turned slowly to look at him. "And do you think they were worth it?"

Connor met her eyes. "Oh, yes." A small grin touched his lips. "Every doit. And I haven't even eaten one yet."

Cassandra smiled back at him and then put the first orange section in her mouth. "Mmmm." She leaned her back against the warm stone of the cottage and chewed slowly, her eyes closed, savoring every last drop of juice. "There were orange trees growing in the courtyard of our house in Spain. I used to go and pick an orange every morning." She selected another section and bit it in half, sucking the juice out slowly. "You know, I still sometimes expect to see Ramirez come riding up the path with that cheerful smile, and one of those improbable hats."

"I do, too," Connor admitted. "He doesn't seem truly dead to me."

"It's hard to believe it's been fifty years." She turned to him. "I appreciate your coming to tell me." She had known Ramirez was dead from her dream, but she had not known where he had died. Connor had visited her six months later and told her that the Kurgan had come to his home and attacked Ramirez while Connor had been out hunting. Connor had come home to find his teacher- his friend -dead, his home destroyed, and his wife Heather hiding nearby. It had not been Connor's first encounter with the Kurgan; the Kurgan had killed Connor for the first time on the field of battle, then tried to take his head. She knew the Kurgan would try for Connor's head again; he was not a man to give up easily. She laid her hand on Connor's arm. "I know it was not an easy time for you."

"Nor for you." Connor's gaze was sympathetic. "I was glad I knew you, so I knew to come here."

Cassandra said, "I was surprised Ramirez had mentioned me to you."

"Well, he had not, not at first." Connor rubbed his chin. "We were telling stories one night, he and Heather and I. He told a story of a great spirit who was imprisoned in a bottle for thousands of years. Then I told a story of the witch of Donan Woods, and how she had snakes for hair and ate children who wandered into the forest." He grinned ruefully. "Ramirez thought it very funny."

"No doubt he did," Cassandra answered dryly.

Connor shrugged. "So then he told me that you were an Immortal. That you knew each other, and that you were friends. And the very next day you came riding up to my home, carrying a brace of rabbits across your saddle." He shook his head. "An odd sort of witch, I thought."

Cassandra grinned slightly. "Even witches need to eat."

Connor grinned back and shook his head. "Well, and so I knew to come here to tell you, when he died."

"Yes. It was good to talk of him with a friend. Then, and now." She took another bite of orange. "He was an interesting man," she said thoughtfully. "So full of life, of a zest for life. He told me once that he thought he had been chosen to be an Immortal because the fates knew he would not be content until he had experienced all that life had to offer. He liked to see new things, new places."

"Is that why you and Ramirez came here?"

Not really, but she wasn't going to tell Connor all of her reasons. "Yes. He said he had never been to this part of the world before. He became bored here, though, and stayed for only a year. He left to be the chief metallurgist for Charles I. King Charles was fighting many battles, and Ramirez decided he did not want to miss the excitement."

Connor spoke up, confused. "I thought he was chief metallurgist for Charles V."

"Yes, but King Charles I of Spain was made Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire in 1520. He held both titles." She shrugged. "The titles of kings and emperors are always changing." She handed him half of the last orange and took the other half for herself. "We also came to the Highlands because we had been in Spain too long. It was time to move on."

"How often do you move?"

"Usually? At least every fifteen years." Usually it was every two or three years, but she wasn't going to tell Connor that, either. "I don't go back to the towns I've lived in until at least a century has gone by. Here, it is different. I don't meet many people, and everyone thinks I'm a witch anyway."

"Aye, I know," Connor said in some embarrassment. "I've heard the stories since I was a lad. We used to dare each other to go into the woods to look for the witch."

Cassandra smiled. She sometimes saw children on the edge of the forest, but took great care that they never saw her. "Oh? Are there other stories, besides my devouring children?"

"They do say that you can make love potions or turn people into toads." Connor leaned back and crossed his legs. "That's what the men say anyway. The women wouldn't talk about you, at least where the menfolk could hear."

"I never see men here, at the cottage," she said thoughtfully. "The men will find me if I'm out walking sometimes, but only the women actually come here. I suppose they tell each other where I live. There was another woman here before me, as I told you. And she said there was one before her. The spring is very old."

"The stories tell of the witch changing from an old woman to a young one and back again." He snorted. "I never thought I would meet the witch."

"Or bring her oranges, I'll warrant."

He snorted again and nodded.

She watched him, enjoying his company. Perhaps, for a time at least, she would not have to be alone. She swallowed the last section of orange and licked the juice off her fingers, relishing the bitter sweetness, then washed away the last lingering traces of juice in her cup of water and dried her fingers on her apron. "They tell stories about you, too, you know."

"Me!" He looked horrified.

"Oh, yes. A girl who came here maybe ten years ago told me the latest tale." The accent of the Highlands thickened as she repeated the story. "In my grandfather's day it was, there was a young warrior named Connor MacLeod, and he were killed in the fighting 'gainst the Frasiers." She leaned toward him conspiratorially. "But he did not sta' dead!" She nodded. "'Tis true, my grandfather saw it. He woke up again, and the great gaping wound was gone awa' as if it had ne'er been." She resumed her normal voice. "They still tell that tale."

"Do they tell the rest of that tale?" he asked with bitterness. "How the young warrior was driven from his clan, chained to a log and pelted with rocks?"

"Connor," she said gently and laid her hand briefly on his own. "They were afraid, as you would have been afraid. They did not understand. You did not understand it yourself until Ramirez came."

He said nothing for a time, then asked, "I've often wondered. How did Ramirez know to come looking for me?"

"He had heard the Kurgan was in the Highlands." She twirled her cup between her hands. "Ramirez was following him and decided to visit me. I told him the tale of the young warrior who had returned from the dead." Connor snorted and looked away. "We knew what that meant, of course. We both set out looking for you the next day, though he found you first."

Connor nodded. "Aye, I remember, you came by a month later, with the rabbits."

"It did take rather a long time to find you," she observed.

His jaw tightened and he glanced away. "Heather and I traveled south from this place after we married, then we settled near Glencoe. It's a fair ways from here." They both knew why he had moved so far away. They were silent, remembering, until he asked, "Did you meet Ramirez in Spain?"

"Oh, no. We met long before that. He bought me in Corinth."

"Bought you?" Connor was incredulous.

"Yes, bought me. At a slave market." She shrugged slightly. "I repaid the favor eventually. He belonged to a Senator in Rome, and I managed to persuade the Senator to sell him to me." She poured herself some water and took a sip. "We did not see each other again until we met in Venice. Since both of us were free, in several senses of the word, we decided to travel to Spain together."

Connor shook his head. "I still can't believe you were both alive in the times of the Romans."

She looked at him. Such a very young, very innocent Immortal. He was not the one she was waiting for, but still, he could be useful if he were properly trained. She had learned long ago, and to her sorrow, not to trust solely in the good intentions of those she depended on. She must train them, bind them to her, use whatever means were necessary. Then, when the time was right, they would do as she asked. She needed help to complete her task, and she must not fail. No matter the cost to herself, or to others.

"Incredible, I know," Cassandra answered Connor. "After the Roman Empire fell, or rather crumbled, I traveled for several centuries, and then went to Baghdad." She had not chosen to go. "It was beautiful there." She looked out at the immense trees surrounding them, and remembered the bright sunshine, the columned halls with cool fountains. She tried not to remember some of the other things that had happened there.

"Baghdad? Isn't that in the land of the infidels?"

She was taken aback at his tone. "Yes, most of the people who live there are Muslim."

"How could you live among the infidels?"

"I became a Muslim when I lived there."

He stared at her, shocked. "You renounced Christianity? You forsook our Lord?"

She reminded herself again of how very young and inexperienced he was. "Connor," she said patiently, "I was not a Christian." Now he was truly aghast. Everyone he knew was a Christian. She tried again. "I was alive for centuries before Jesus Christ was even born." She pressed the point. "As was Ramirez."

"Oh," he said weakly.

"We come-"

"We?" he questioned.

"Yes," she said, in some exasperation. "We. We Immortals." She looked at him sharply. "You are an Immortal, Connor. You must accept that." She went on, "We Immortals come from many lands and many times. We have worshipped many goddesses and gods. Some worship none at all." She could tell he did not like that either.

After a pause, he asked, "You were a nun, so you are a Christian now, are you not?"

It seemed important to him. "Yes." She had learned that it was safer to acknowledge the gods and goddesses of whatever land she found herself in. The names did not really matter much. They were all children of the Mother. "What prompted you to visit?" she asked, to forestall any more talk of religion. "I'm sure you could find bread somewhere else." She was amused to see that he could still blush.

"I've been in Edinburgh these last few years."

"Ah. Then Heather ...?"

He scratched at the ground with a stick. "Yes. Five years ago, in the spring."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "It is hard to say good-bye." He would not meet her eyes. "And how did you like Edinburgh?"

"Well enough, I suppose. It's a great busy place, noisy and smoky. I've no wish to live in a city. I did learn to read there," he said proudly, "and speak the English."

"Reading and English will be useful to you," she agreed gravely. "We can speak English if you like," she suggested, switching to that language. "You could practice."

"That would be good," he replied in English. Then he went back to the Gaelic. "But nay the now. I've had the English on my tongue for too long. It tastes worse than that slop they call whisky in the Lowlands."

"Nay the now," she agreed in the language of the Highlands, smiling a little. "What else did you learn?"

"I met a sword master," Connor said.

"Is that where you learned some of those new moves?"

"Yes, from him." He smiled slowly. "And from some others. A ragtag lot of craven Lowlanders."

"I take it they did not enjoy the lessons?" His continued smile told her she was correct. "Did you meet any other Immortals?"

The smile disappeared. He looked at the ground again. "Last week. I felt something ..."

"And?"

He jabbed hard at the ground with the stick. "I left." He jabbed again, and the stick broke. "I left, and I rode, and I rode until I found myself here."

"That was a wise thing."

"Wise!" he burst out. "Did you not hear? I left!" He dropped the broken stick and stood abruptly, taking a few steps from the cottage. His voice was quieter now. "I ran away."

Cassandra came to stand beside him and said gently, "Yes, you left, and it was wise." She could tell he did not believe her. "How long did Ramirez spend with you?"

"A year, perhaps."

"A year? Do you think you had learned everything that Ramirez wanted to teach you? Some Immortals stay with their teachers for fifty years before they leave."

"Fifty years!" She could see that it was a lifetime to him. He had so much to learn about being an Immortal. "Some stay longer," she added.

"How long did you stay?" he asked. "With your first teacher?"

She could not help it. She flinched. "Long enough," she said in a voice that invited no further comment. She continued, "You left Edinburgh because you knew you were not ready. It is a wise man who retreats to build his strength."

Finally he turned to her and met her eyes, and she looked at him, cool and assessing. Yes, she thought, this one will be a help. And she owed it to Ramirez to complete the work he had started. "Are you looking for a teacher, Connor?" It had been a very long time since she had had a student.

"I think I am." He looked suddenly lost and alone.

"Are you looking for me?"

Cassandra could see the surprise in his eyes at her question. He had probably never thought a woman could be his teacher. He did indeed have much to learn. "Aye," he said finally, "I think I must be." He shrugged. "I know of no one else. No one who can teach me what I need to know to be an Immortal."

Not the most flattering way to ask for a teacher, Cassandra thought wryly, but she was not surprised. He would learn. Oh, yes, he would learn. She held out her hands to him, and when he grasped her hands tightly she could feel the sword calluses on his palms and fingers as they rubbed against her own. The sun had finally reached the horizon, and the leaves shone a burnished green in the low- slanting rays.

"I, Cassandra, accept you, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, as student, to teach and to train, to guide and to protect, until the day when you must make your own way in the world."

His deeper voice answered, slow and quiet. "I, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, accept you, Cassandra, as teacher. I will listen, and learn, until the day when I must make my own way in the world."

* * *

The training started the next morning before the first meal of the day. The long hours of midsummer sunshine were not to be wasted. Cassandra came out of the cottage, dressed in a loose blue gown that came only a little past her knees. She walked quickly, enjoying the freedom the gown gave her, for the clothes of this time and place were very confining. And difficult to fight in.

Connor was already standing in the yard, swinging his katana idly in practice arcs.

She saw him watching her, but she did not smile at him, and she made sure her face showed nothing but a cold and cautious wariness. He suddenly looked rather nervous. Another might have missed it, for he hid it well, but she saw the sudden flicker in the eyes, the tenseness in his shoulders. Good. Nervousness and uncertainty were excellent teachers. She stopped a few paces away from him and bowed, carefully keeping her eyes on him.

He bowed back awkwardly, obviously unsure of what to do with his sword, but just as carefully kept his eyes on her.

Ramirez had taught him that, at least. Bowing with your head down was a good way to lose it. "Shall we begin?" she asked, her voice cool and remote.

He nodded, and watched her carefully.

She moved to stand beside him and lifted her sword over her right shoulder, then brought it down in a smooth stroke. She looked at him and waited. He swung his sword in what he apparently thought was precisely the same manner, then looked at her.

She shook her head. "Faster."

He swung again, and again she shook her head.

"Try it thus," she said, and demonstrated the stroke once more.

"That's what I did!" he protested, sounding outraged at her condescension. "I don't need a woman to teach me such a simple stroke."

She turned slowly, a lovely smile on her lips. "Ah." This one did indeed have a lot to learn. She tilted her head slightly. "Would you like to start on the more advanced techniques?"

"Aye," he said. "I'm ready for them, and I'm ready for you."

She arched her eyebrows slightly and nodded, still smiling. Best to get this done quickly. "Excellent. Shall we begin?" He had only barely started to nod his head when she attacked him, her blade gleaming and deadly.

Connor was caught by surprise and stumbled backward and fell, ending up sitting in the dirt.

She brought the sharp point of her blade to just under his chin, then backed off and allowed him to rise. She wasn't smiling now. He stood, and she attacked again. This time she tripped him and placed her sword at the side of his neck.

He rose more slowly, keeping his eyes on her. He was still not prepared for her sudden movement as she stepped closer to him and flipped him in the dirt. He landed hard on his back, and again her sword was at his throat.

She stepped back and watched him, waited for him to stand, even get his breath. She smiled again and asked sweetly, "Would you like to continue the more advanced lessons?"

Connor was obviously not about to answer that question. He spun around and walked off, leaving her standing there. When he came back much later that day, she said nothing. After he had eaten, he said brusquely, "I'm ready to practice the sword stroke."

She nodded calmly, and they went outside and drew their swords. He carefully raised his sword over his head and swung it in the simple downward stroke.

"Again," she said, "and faster."

* * *

Day after day in the clearing they practiced with swords, and with knives, and with sticks, and with bare hands and feet.

The learning continued as they talked while they rested between bouts or took care of the daily chores. Connor listened as she told him of ancient cities and civilizations, gone now to dust, their very names forgotten. She told him of living and loving and leaving, then living and loving again. She told him of battles with other Immortals, of hunting and being hunted throughout the centuries and across continents, of ancient vengeance and smoldering hates. She told him of learning new languages and new customs, and learning again, and then again.

And Cassandra listened as he spoke of his boyhood in a clan not unlike the tribe of her own youth, of his pride in hunting and providing meat for his family, of the thrill of stealing cattle, and the shared comradeship of his fellow clansmen. She listened as he told her of the anguish of being banished, of the dreadful knowledge curled deep within him that in all the world he had no home, no family, no kin. He spoke of the helpless rage he felt toward the Kurgan, of his whispered fear of meeting him again. She listened to his tales of simple happy times shared with his wife Heather, of days and nights of fifty years together, while he watched her grow old alone.

As the days shortened and the nights grew cool, they listened and learned from each other, as they spoke of what it was to be an Immortal.

Their practice bouts took place in the clearing in front of the cottage. As his skills increased she started ambushing him in the forest or near the shed. "Let's leave the cottage as a refuge," she suggested. "We need a place to relax." He agreed, grateful for the respite.

They were comfortable with each other now, knowing each other's rhythms. They fixed the roof, and he went hunting to bring them fresh meat. She sewed him new clothes and gathered and dried herbs. They worked together in the small garden, and he helped her catch the ewe when she got loose.

One day near harvest time, Connor returned late from hunting. Cassandra came out from the garden to greet him, then hesitated in surprise.

Connor gave her a quick grin. He had a dead wolf tied on his back, and in his arms he carried a wriggling basket. His horse trailed along behind. "The horse would not let me put the wolf on her back," he explained to Cassandra. "The smell drives her mad. She thinks it's still alive."

"Something's alive in there," said Cassandra, nodding toward the basket. Soft whines and scrabbling sounds came forth.

"Aye," he said. "It's for you." Cassandra took the basket from him, and he continued, "I was right atop their den and didn't realize it, till the she-wolf came at my throat. I'd no choice but to use my knife on her. Didn't want to leave the little one to starve. It's not yet weaned." He untied the rope and swung the heavy burden of the dead wolf onto the ground.

Cassandra placed the basket on the ground, then went over to the she-wolf and rubbed her hands back and forth in belly fur. She sat next to the basket and unfastened the lid, then placed her hands inside. The pup sniffed about, and the soft whines subsided. She lifted the pup out of the basket and placed it on her lap, all the while making small keening noises at the back of her throat.

Cassandra offered the pup her finger and stiffened a little as the pup clamped down and started sucking vigorously, then stroked the pup's belly with her other hand. She smiled at the pup gently; it had been many, many years since she had had a pet. The pup's amber eyes closed in contentment as she caressed the soft white fur.

She looked up to thank Connor for bringing the pup, but her words died when she saw his face. His eyes were half-closed, and he was watching her hand as it moved slowly through the pup's fur. His expression was one of painful loneliness and longing.

Cassandra quickly dropped her gaze. She had known that Connor would probably become attracted to her, for living in the same house with no other people around had its disadvantages. She had not thought it would happen so quickly; he had only been staying with her for six weeks. Then again, she realized, Heather had been dead these last five years. Connor was very much alone, and he was very much a man.

He was also her student. It would not work. Cassandra knew that, knew it all too well. She could not permit it. The final lesson would be difficult enough. She would have to keep him busy enough and tired enough and irritated enough so that he would not think of such things.

She stilled her hand, then smiled up at him and said brightly, "It may not yet be weaned, but it's got teeth."

Connor jerked and tried to focus on her words. "What?"

"We'll have to get some sheep's milk. It ...," Cassandra took a closer look at the pup and then said, "or, rather, she, will not be satisfied with my finger for long."

Connor nodded absently, then realized the pup had fallen asleep on her lap. He looked at her with curiosity and not a little fear. "The way you have with the pup. Are you in truth a witch?"

Cassandra looked at him gravely for a moment. Half in jest and half in earnest, Ramirez had once called the people of the Highlands ignorant savages. They were not stupid, but they were indeed ignorant of many things, living so isolated from other peoples. Savage and harsh they sometimes were, but they lived in a harsh land that tolerated little weakness. They were in truth not unlike most tribal people Cassandra had met throughout the ages: suspicious, superstitious, and set in their ways. Connor was still very much a part of this land. It would be interesting to watch him grow up.

She asked, "Is it magic when you and the horse understand each other? Was it magic when you were herding kine and knew which cow would be most likely to stray, and where she would go?"

He shrugged, "Nay, that's not magic, just knowing the beasts, knowing how they think."

"And so it is here. Every creature has its own language. The magic lies in the listening. Most humans are so busy listening to themselves that they never listen to others, man or beast." She stood, cradling the pup in her arms. "Magic is just another name for something that you do not understand. You needn't always be in awe of another's magic. Careful, yes, but not automatically fearful." She gave him a small smile. "Remember, you and I have our own kind of magic."

He gave her a wry smile in return. "A kind of magic. I suppose you could call it that." He jerked his head toward the body of the she-wolf. "Do you want to keep the pelt?"

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "I think I do. Can you skin it?"

He nodded. "Aye," he said, "I'll get started on it after I take care of the horse." He walked over to the mare.

Cassandra stood with the pup in her arms and watched Connor as he led the horse to the shed. He moved gracefully, a quick smoothness to his stride. She knew well the strength in him, the solid muscles that rippled in his arms and shoulders. She knew also the quiet smile, the brooding silences, the way he had of flinging his hair out of his eyes when he talked, and the lost look in his eyes. She wondered what it would be like to touch his hair, to feel its softness in her fingers, to have him hold her in his arms.

Cassandra blinked and carefully composed her face into its customary calm expression, erasing the loneliness and the longing there. She took a deep breath and shook her head ruefully, suddenly realizing that she would have to keep herself busy as well. This could not happen. She carried the pup into the cottage.

* * *

The pup grew quickly on a diet of sheep's milk and diced rabbit, and Cassandra named her Sela. The pup chewed on their shoes and anything else that was left on the floor. They took to picketing the horse outside and putting Sela in the shed when they practiced fighting, for she attacked their feet with utter abandon. The quiet evenings of singing together and games of chess in front of the fire were now enlivened by Sela's antics.

One evening at the end of September, Cassandra stopped her sewing to watch Connor as he crouched on the floor. He held a rag tightly between his teeth and growled ferociously as Sela tugged frantically on the other end. "Now who is talking to the wolf?" she asked, laughing.

Connor glanced her way with a wicked gleam in his eye, but did not let go of the rag to answer. His hair fell over his face as he yanked on the rag, and Sela's paws scrabbled on the floor.

He would have been a good father, she thought suddenly, watching him play with the pup. He and Heather should have had children. Cassandra stabbed the needle viciously through the cloth.

Finally Connor let go of the rag, and Sela retired victorious. She climbed atop Cassandra's bed and lay down on top of her mother's pelt, happily chewing the rag to bits. Connor shook the hair back from his eyes and joined Cassandra in front of the fire. He wore a satisfied grin as he lounged back in the chair, and his eyes were alight with mischief and good humor under partially lowered lids.

Cassandra smiled back at him and continued on with her sewing, the needle flashing silver in the candlelight. She knew his good mood was not entirely due to playing with Sela. He had done particularly well during training today, besting her twice, even disarming her.

Connor poured himself a cup of whisky and watched in silence for a long time. "What are you making?" he asked, his voice still husky from the growling.

"I'm embroidering a new bodice," she said, and spread the cloth against herself for him to see. "The flowers will go here." She outlined a path across the top of her breasts.

Connor's hooded gaze followed her finger. Then his eyes slowly retraced the path, lingering at the curves. "Aye," he said slowly, his eyes half-closed, his lashes improbably long. "It will look bonny." The words came slowly, and his voice was still husky.

Cassandra felt a line of fire where his eyes burned into her and silently cursed herself. He might not be totally aware of what was happening, but she was. This could not happen. Not now; it was not yet time. She had to distract him. "Did Heather like embroidered clothes?" she asked.

His head jerked a little at the name. "Aye," he said. "A little. She liked red, I remember." He took a sip of whisky. "When I first met her, here in the Highlands, she had a red dress she would wear in the summer. She would race down the mountainside, her dress flowing behind her." His voice grew slower and softer. "And the sunlight would cover her, and her hair was golden with the touch of it. And when the butterflies landed on her head, she would laugh. They thought her hair a rare new flower." He stopped and stared into the fire, silent once again.

Cassandra bent her head industriously to her sewing. That had worked, for now.

But Connor was still watching her. "How old are you, Cassandra?" he asked suddenly.

The needle paused for an instant, then continued its steady rhythm. "There are two questions an Immortal never asks, Connor," she said lightly, keeping her eyes on her work. "Never ask an Immortal how old he is." She looked up at him then, and her eyes were very old indeed. She selected a new thread and bit the end of it sharply.

His mouth twisted wryly, and he took another drink. "And the other question?" he asked after a moment.

"Never ask how many heads they have taken." Now her eyes were cold and watchful. "Some might consider that a challenge."

He leaned back in his chair, still relaxed, still watching her under hooded eyes.

She set down her sewing and stood abruptly, wishing to end this conversation. "I am going to bed. Sleep well, Connor."

* * *

Connor did not sleep well. He awoke suddenly the next morning in the gray light of a misty dawn. Had he heard something? He rolled over and reached for his sword just as the bed curtain was pulled back. Cassandra's sword came slicing down where his neck had been only a moment before. He turned on his back and managed to bring his sword up in time to block her next blow. His bed was against the wall; there was no way out except past her.

She withdrew a little, her eyes intent upon him.

He scrambled to his knees. He knew he was stronger than she was; he knew she relied on her speed and agility in a fight. He could tell she was looking for an opening, so he shifted slightly, giving her a chance to attack from the left. She took it, stepping forward quickly, and he dove off the right side of the bed, rolling to his feet on the other side of the table. His feet were bare, and he wore only his sark, the long woolen shirt coming to midway down his thighs.

What was she doing? This had to be a new sort of training, Connor thought. He saw her eyes, amused and cold, and swallowed hard. It had to be training. She would not ...

"My, aren't we graceful this morning?" Her voice was like her blade-smooth, polished, deadly. She stalked him, coming closer to the table, then attacked suddenly, driving him out the door.

He stumbled backward over the threshold, and she was on him in an instant, slicing through the cloth and laying open his chest, then cutting his sword arm to the bone. The air was cold, and he shivered and faltered again, as much from confusion as from pain. She drove her sword upward into his guts, twisting and pushing as his blood spilled over her hands.

He sagged on the blade, his face etched with pain and the shock of disbelief. Surely she would stop now. She had to stop.

She did not. A small smile played about her lips as she twisted her sword higher and deeper until it reached his heart. Connor gagged at the sudden pain as his heart tried desperately to pump blood around the blade. Still watching him, still smiling, she tilted her sword down just a little. He slid back with agonizing slowness, and she smiled as the razor-sharp edge of the blade grated on bone and sliced through cartilage, muscle, and skin.

His eyes already glazing, still impaled on her sword, he choked out through the bubbles of blood in his mouth, "You said the cottage was a refuge!"

Amusement and contempt mingled in her voice. "I lied." She stepped back and let him fall to the ground, swiftly withdrawing her blade.

It hurt. Oh, God, it hurt. And she smiled at him as she wiped his blood off her blade. Smiled at him as lay in the dirt, his dark-red heart's blood pumping through his fingers. She smiled, but her eyes did not. When he was a boy, he had seen a cat playing with a baby rabbit it had caught. The disdainful calculating stare of her green eyes was the same. He stared at her until he died.

* * *

When he revived, he was lying where she had left him, his pooled blood congealing in the dust. At least he still had his head. He could not sense her, and she was nowhere to be seen.

Connor moved cautiously and stiffly to the spring to wash off the blood. He gasped as the warm water sluiced over his skin, then left the spring to return to the cottage. As he passed between the ancient oaks he shivered with the sensation of another Immortal. He whirled and reached for his sword. It was not there. He had left it in the dirt in front of the cottage, and he had just stepped off Holy Ground.

"Too late," her voice crooned in his ear, as he felt a knife bury itself to the hilt in his back just below his ribs. God damn the bitch! Not again! He convulsed in pain and shock, then started to fall. The last thing he felt was a rock smashing into his nose and cheek when he hit the ground.

* * *

This time when he revived he did not bother to wash, though he wiped at his face with the back of his hand to remove some of the crusted blood. The sun, a patch of brightness in the clouds, showed through the branches of the trees. He crept cautiously back to the cottage, alert for every movement in the forest. His horse was picketed next to the shed, browsing among the shrubbery. His sword was still lying in the dust; at least she hadn't taken it. She hadn't taken his head this time either. Why was she doing this?

And where was she? Connor wanted to know that most of all. No smoke came from the chimney; the door was shut, and the strand of white wool hung in front of it. Would she have left the cottage with him lying dead near the spring? He truly did not know. He did not know what she was capable of anymore.

The chickens clucked contentedly in the yard as he slowly advanced. A wave of relief swept over him as his fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. Finally! It was replaced all too quickly by another wave of fear and anger as he first sensed, then heard, her coming. He remained in his crouch a second longer, then whirled to face her. Their swords met with a clash that sent shock waves up and down their arms. His lips were drawn back in a snarl, and his eyes blazed hot and furious. Not this time!

He fought well, scoring hits on her cheek and arm. The sight of her blood maddened him, and he pressed the attack. She watched coolly, moving swiftly, her blade flickering in and out. He was bleeding in three places to her two when he retreated. They circled warily, their eyes intent. Then she attacked in a flurry of strokes that left him gasping. He was still tired from dying twice that day. She swiped at his feet and tripped him, and he found himself flat on his back. Before he could move she had pulled her knife with her left hand and straddled him. He flinched when he felt the cold blade of the knife at his throat.

"How does it feel?" she asked, her voice soft and caressing. "How does it feel, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, to have a blade at your throat?" She smiled engagingly, and her long hair fell forward and brushed his face like a lover's.

His eyes narrowed in icy rage. He would not answer. She knew very well how he felt. He felt angry, humiliated, stupid, scared, furious, ashamed. Be damned if he would say it.

"Have you learned your lesson?" The patient teacher with the slow pupil.

"Yes." He gritted out the word between his teeth.

"Oh?" Her voice was like silk. "And just what is that lesson?"

The words came grudgingly. "Never leave my sword."

"Oh, good. Very good." She released the pressure on the blade and sat back and smiled at him again.

He could feel the smooth curve of her thighs along his ribs and see the full roundness of her breasts just before him. She looked very beautiful. He swallowed hard, aroused. Not with lust, but with rage. He wanted to strip the clothes from her body and beat her black and blue with his bare hands. He wanted to wrap his hands around that smooth throat and squeeze ever so slowly until that smile disappeared. He wanted to cover her flawless pale skin with red bleeding welts from his sword belt and see her cower and cringe before him. He wanted her to lie weeping at his feet, and he wanted to leave her there to die.

"Get off me!" he demanded, his voice quivering with rage.

"Of course," she replied courteously, and moved off to one side. She stood, sheathed her sword, and extended her hand to him. "Truce?" she inquired.

He glared at her but took her hand, only to gasp as his thumb was bent back at an excruciating angle. This time her knife went in from the front.

As his vision grayed to black, he heard her mocking laughter. "Oh, Connor," her voice sounded gaily far above him, "you are such a fool."

* * *

When he revived for the third time that day, slow raindrops were falling on him from a leaden sky. Sela whined anxiously beside him and licked his face. He glanced about and saw the human bitch sitting on the bench, watching him with that same smile on her face.

He coughed weakly and reached for his sword at the same time. He was too tired to be angry right now. He raised himself up on one elbow. "How am I to know whether to trust you or not?" he complained.

Her voice was distant. "That, Connor, is today's other lesson." She stood and went into the cottage. He fell back again and closed his eyes, his hand still on his sword. Sela lay down beside him and pushed her cold nose into his armpit.

"How do you live like this?" he demanded a short time later. "Never trusting anyone, never safe?" He stood in the doorway to the cottage, still barefoot, blood on his sword, blood caked on his cheek and nose, blood on his torn filthy sark.

She looked up calmly from her sewing, the pup now asleep at her feet. It was a charming scene, marred only by the blood-his blood-which was spattered on the front of her bodice and skirt. Her shining clean sword lay close to her hand. "It is not so different from how many mortals live," she answered.

"I could at least sleep safe in my bed."

"Could you?"

"I trusted my clan!" He was not so tired now, and the anger was back. His voice filled the room. It woke Sela, who whined and flattened her ears.

Cassandra reached down and gentled her, then looked up at Connor. "Are there no stories in your clan of treachery, of trust betrayed? Of brother against brother, father against son?"

His eyes narrowed and his look was mutinous, but he knew the truth of what she said. The words from a haunting ballad heard at many a fireside ran through his mind: "Brother, why come you to my house tonight?" He and Cassandra had sung that ballad together just a few nights before.

She continued, "I know there are such stories in the Christian Bible. Abel and Cain? David and Absolom? Joseph and his brothers?" She put down her sewing and walked towards him.

He backed away, not in fear, but in caution, and his sword came up between them.

She stopped, her face showing only the slightest hint of wariness. "The lessons today were hard ones; it's true," she said. Her gaze was level and unblinking, and he met it unflinchingly. "We Immortals live hard lives. My -teachers- of this lesson were less kind with me than I was today with you." She said softly, "Much less kind."

Though her face was as serene and composed as always, her voice betrayed a depth of pain and suffering that shook him even through the rage that burned clear and white within him.

She returned to her chair and sat down again, leaving a pathway for him into the cottage.

He did not move. "Did you ever take the head of one of your students?" he demanded.

She picked up her sewing and glanced out the window, then turned to him. "Yes." She lifted her chin and stared at him, her eyes wide and calm, daring him to ask, mocking his ignorance.

His nostrils flared in anger. She had made fool enough of him today, damn her. He would have none of it. And none of her. He stalked in, picked up his breacan and his cloak and his boots, then stalked off again.

* * *

Some time later Cassandra heard the jingle and squeak of the horse's reins and saddle. Sela's ears pricked up, and she looked toward the door. "No," commanded Cassandra. "Stay." Sela sat up and whined. Cassandra slid off her seat and knelt on the floor next to her, then clasped her arms around the pup. She looked over the window sill and watched Connor ride away through the rain.

She knew he saw in her the same cruelty and viciousness that she had seen in others. She knew that he hated and despised her, just as she had hated and despised them. She knew that it was different, that she was different, that she caused pain for a reason and not for her own pleasure. But no matter the reason, the pain was still pain, the blood on her hands was still blood, and her betrayal was still betrayal, both of him and of herself.

This betrayal of self went deeper than she wished to know or acknowledge, for deep within her she felt its whispered siren call. The hidden dark part of her knew that it was not different, that she was not different. That part reveled in the power, the control, the blood. That part, that beast within her, stood back and smiled at another's pain, and twisted the knife again, and wanted more.

"No," she whispered, "I exist only to serve." She had no choice; she must treat him so. "It's not my fault!" He must learn! But when did the pupil become the teacher, the servant become the master? It was her path, but not hers alone. She must take others with her, though they did not wish to go. "I have no choice."

Long hours of chanting from her years in the convent echoed in her mind. There were many voices, and hers was among them. "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa," droned on in a never-ending round. Another sister, newly sworn to the order from the novitiate, sang the descant. It floated silver on the air: "Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison." The young woman's voice was pure and her eyes untroubled as she sang of the mercy of the Lord.

The descant ended, and one by one the gray-cloaked figures approached the altar in silence. They genuflected and left, their faces hidden behind wide wimples. At last only she remained, kneeling on the cold stone floor. She could not approach the altar, and her chant went on alone. "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa." She was alone again in a place of stone and ashes.

Cassandra buried her face in the living warmth of Sela's fur and wept. Betrayal was not an easy lesson to learn. It was an even harder lesson to teach.

* * *

_Continued in Chapter 3, wherein the Highlander returns_


	3. HF2: Chapter 3

_Mature themes_

* * *

**Hope Forgotten II**

**WITCH**

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

**Martinmas, 1592****  
Donan Woods**

* * *

The leaves were in the full glory of autumn when Connor came back six weeks later. He had a heavy growth of beard on his face, and a fresh-killed deer was slung over his horse. He stopped in the yard, ten paces away. Sela, grown leggy in his absence, loped out to meet him, jumping up and sniffing excitedly at the deer. His horse shied away, and Connor calmed her, then dismounted and bent slightly to scratch the pup's ears. He did not take his gaze from Cassandra.

She was relieved and glad to see him again; she had not been certain he would return. She looked at him curiously. He was different. There was a look about him that had not been there before, an awareness of his surroundings that showed in his stance, the way he held his head, the calculating set to his eyes that measured everything and everyone around him. And, she saw with a faint twinge of regret, a look of studied aloofness, a sharp hardness like the fine edge on the blade of a sword. Never again would he call out in simple friendship. At nearly seventy-five years old, he was finally no longer young. He had come of age as an Immortal.

He stood there, studying her in return. After a long quiet moment he announced, "I am no longer your student."

She considered him a moment longer. "It is time," she agreed, "I am no longer your teacher." After a pause she asked, "Truce?"

He nodded. "Truce." He did not move any closer to her.

She held both hands out to him, as she had when they had taken the oath binding them as teacher and student. "I hope that I may be your friend."

Her hands remained outstretched for a long moment before he asked, "Have you ever taken the head of a friend?"

She did not hesitate. "Yes." Then she added, "Only when she tried to take my head first."

He thought about that for a moment, then came to her, and they joined hands. "Friends."

* * *

They feasted that evening on roast venison flavored with juniper berries. Sela enjoyed the scraps and bones. It was a mild night, rare for this time of year, and they sat outside on the bench. Cassandra sipped at her wine, while Connor drank some of the whisky he had brought with him. They watched the sunset gild anew the golden leaves.

Connor stared out into the forest. "I've been thinking of what you said."

"Mmm?" she replied noncommittally.

He paused, then plunged in. "Do many teachers take their students' heads?"

Cassandra turned to look at him, seeing the tension in the line of his jaw, the rigid way he held his head. His future, and hers, depended on her answer. "It happens. For a variety of reasons: jealousy, fear ...," she waited until he returned her gaze, "... hate." She saw the flicker in his eyes at that word, and felt a coldness deep within her. She ignored it and continued, "And sometimes a student becomes - someone you cannot permit to live."

"Cannot permit?" His voice was sharp on the second word.

She looked away then, remembering. "You have met only a few of us, Connor, but many Immortals are drunk with the power of life and death. Their lives, and others' deaths. They think nothing of mortals; they think nothing of killing mortals, for they are - nothing." She stared at her hands, curling loosely around her cup. "I had a student once who believed so." More than one student who believed so. And teachers who believed it, too. "I would not loose such a one on the world." She shrugged. "The Kurgan had a teacher, too, you know."

He grunted at that and nodded slowly. He took another sip of whisky and asked, "Do students ever take their teacher's heads?"

"Yes." She stared into her cup, seeing the ripples cross and recross the wine, like the smooth patterning shimmering in the metal of a sword blade. She remembered what she had said to him before of treachery and betrayal.

* * *

**Festival of Ishtar, 1291 BCE**  
**By the Rivers of Babylon

* * *

**

Cassandra crouched in the shadow of a mud-brick hut, trying to quiet the pounding of her heart and to breathe silently, even though she desperately wanted to take in large gasps of air. She did not notice the beauty of the night, or hear the faint music that came from the town in the distance. She did not see the tall date-palm trees standing black above the silvered ribbons of the irrigation canals. She did not smell the sweet scent of flowers that lay heavy above the rich pungent smell of newly turned earth and manure.

She mentally cursed the bright moonlight that showed her footprints plainly in the damp earth of the irrigated fields. Roland was near; she could sense him. At least he was not yet an Immortal; he did not have the same advantage.

She sidled to the edge of the shadows, hoping to find a better hiding place. The cleared fields were interrupted only by four palm trees and a small fenced-in enclosure for goats next to another hut. Cassandra moistened dry lips. He was coming; she must escape. Perhaps she could climb on top of the hut? She would be hidden from sight there by the knee-high wall that rimmed the roof.

She climbed the small tree that grew against the hut and reached up to grasp the top of the wall. Her fingernails and bare toes dug into the dusty dryness of the adobe bricks. She cautiously pulled herself onto the roof, easing her body slowly and silently over the wall onto the sun-warmed tiles. She lay flat, her arms and legs shaking with tension and the effort of the climb. Had the people in the hut heard her? There was no sound from within, and Cassandra willed herself to stillness.

A small drainage hole in the wall allowed her to see the lay of the land. She was closer to the river than she had thought; it was just beyond the next field. And there! Tied to a post was a small boat made of bundled reeds. The river was running swiftly now, swollen by melting snows and spring rains. It would carry her far away.

Then his voice, cool and mocking, sounded softly in the night air. "Oh, Cassandra...!"

Over there, near the four palm trees.

"Where are you?" he called.

She could see Roland in the moonlight, his thin muscular torso shining with oil, his long hair elaborately curled. He stood with feet apart in a fighting stance. He held his sword casually in his right hand and swung it back and forth.

"Cassandra?" His voice was edged with irritation. "I know you came this way." The ground around the huts was above the flood plain and was trampled dusty and dry; her foot prints were lost among hundreds of others.

"Answer me!" he demanded, using the Voice of command.

Cassandra bit her lip until it bled to keep her silence.

He moved over to the goat pen. "I'll find you; you know that."

She could tell he was growing angry now. He had never had much patience. He walked from the goat-pen towards her, and she lost sight of him as he moved closer to the hut. Hunters seldom looked up, she knew. She hoped. She heard Roland let out his breath in a hiss of frustration directly below her, then she saw his head and shoulders again in the moonlight as he stepped towards the other hut.

A dog barked in the distance, and he swung around sharply. The moonlight threw dark shadows in the pits of his eyes. The dog barked again, and he headed in that direction. Cassandra closed her eyes for a second and breathed a silent prayer. She waited until he was halfway across the field before leaping down from the roof. She twisted her ankle when she landed, but ignored the pain shooting up her leg and ran. Speed was more important now than silence.

She leaped across the ditch and stumbled into the water, then scrambled up the bank. Only this field to go! Her ankle had healed, but the sharp stubble of the newly reaped sesame field cut into her feet. She left bloody footprints as she ran.

She glanced behind her. He had heard her splash into the water and was coming after her again. He was almost to the palm trees. As she reached the boat she heard him cross the irrigation ditch. Her fingers worked frantically at the knot on the rope that tied the boat. There! She waded into the cool water and pulled the boat away from shore. She heaved herself into the boat and picked up the pole. As she pushed the boat into the current she looked up and saw him. He was picking his way across the sesame field, not as willing to cut his feet as she had been. She gave two more strong pushes, and the boat was in the middle of the current, moving quickly downstream.

He stood on the shoreline, watching. "I'll find you!" he called.

Cassandra shivered at the cold menace in his voice. She saw Roland lift the sword in a final mocking salute and stare at her as the river carried her away. The moonlight was at his back, and she could not see his face.

She floated downstream all night. Before the sun rose she poled the boat over to the river's edge and hid it among the tall reeds. She pulled some of the reeds out of the mud and covered herself with them, then lay down in the bottom of the boat and slept.

As the sun rose high in the sky, she dreamed of Death again, a dream she had not had for many years. Death was there, his body on her and in her, his hands around her throat, his cold mocking eyes intent upon her as she lay helpless beneath him.

But the voice that whispered in her ears was the voice of Roland, and Death's laughter was his laughter. She woke gasping for air, her tears on her cheeks and his laughter in her ears.

* * *

**Martinmas, 1592**  
**Donan Woods

* * *

**

"Yes," Cassandra continued smoothly, "studends take their teacher's heads. Often for the same reasons. Jealousy, hate, fear. Sometimes it is merely for the thrill of the Quickening."

"Or for the Prize," added Connor.

Cassandra took another sip of wine. She did not believe in the Prize, but Ramirez had, and he had taught Connor to believe in it, too. It was better that way, she thought. Better to think there was some purpose to Immortality, some justification behind the endless killing, some reason to keep living. She nodded without looking at him and murmured, "Of course, the Prize." She smiled a little, sadly. "No one teaches everything to a student."

Connor looked at her curiously.

She lifted one eyebrow in return and answered his unspoken question. "No, I have not taught you everything I know, either."

He snorted without amusement.

A line of geese flew overhead, returning to the waters of the loch for the night. They were low enough so that the whir of their wings could be heard. After the last echo of the lonesome calls of the geese had faded, she commented, "The leaves are beautiful, are they not?"

"Aye, I suppose."

"They were beautiful last year, too, but they'll be gone soon. They live for a time, and then, they die." She took another drink of wine. "I try to enjoy them while they last."

"It is a lonely life for you, is it not?"

She stared into the gathering darkness. "It is a lonely life."

* * *

They continued their practice bouts, though not as frequently. He disappeared for days at a time, then returned without explanation. She did not ask where he went, though she suspected that he went to watch the folk in the village of Glenfinnan. At night in front of the fire they told each other stories, but now the stories were about other places and other people, not about themselves.

As the colder weather and shorter days approached he traveled less. He was restless and irritable, and often stood staring out the window.

She watched him and thought of how much he reminded her physically of Ramirez. Their voices had the same rough-edged gentleness. Their smiles were the same, touching their eyes more than their mouths, though Ramirez's eyes had been brown, and Connor's eyes were gray. But where Ramirez had been open and effusive, Connor was brooding and reclusive. She wondered how much of their temperament came from the lands they were born to. Ramirez came from Egypt, a place of open horizons and sunshine. The Highlands were a place of towering crags and hidden glens, a land of rain and fog. Where Ramirez would have shouted or laughed or sworn, Connor was silent.

Cassandra was silent, too, waiting.

On the day before the solstice she finally asked him. "Why are you still here?"

Connor stopped his pacing in front of the fire. He turned abruptly and went to the window. It was already dark at a few hours past midday, a swirling of snow barely visible through the circled glass. He shrugged, his back to her. "I like the smell of the sea air and the hills. It's different here in the Highlands than it is in the city. The smell and the taste of it are different. And I miss the forests ...," and then he added so quietly she almost did not hear, "... and the heather in bloom."

She knew he was mourning not just the loss of his wife Heather, but the loss of his entire way of life. Though he had been an Immortal for over fifty years, he had been living the life of a mortal. It was time for him to leave the Highlands, leave the land of his birth and his death. He knew it was time to leave, but he was not yet ready to go.

Cassandra looked into the flames. She, too, sometimes longed for a place that had ceased to exist, for the sound of a lullaby in a language which had not been spoken in millennia. They were gone, swept away by the forever ebbing tide of time.

She knew Connor could still see the clansfolk in the village of his childhood, still smell the smoke from their fires, still hear their voices and their laughter. The water lapped at his feet, but the tide had ebbed beyond his reach.

He shook his head. "We have so much time, and they have so little. So much time, to be so alone," he murmured.

She watched him for a moment, wondering if she should go to him now. It was not easy for her to share her life and herself with another, to let a man get close to her again. But they were no longer teacher and student, and she hoped they might become more than friends. It would be no more dangerous for him than it already was; Roland would kill her lover just as readily as he would kill her student. She knew Connor was lonely, and she was lonely, too. She didn't want to be alone anymore. She pushed away her fear and went to stand beside him.

She slid her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. After a moment, he put his arm cautiously around her. They stood thus for a moment, until she turned in the circle of his arms. "We do not always have to be alone, Connor."

She stepped closer and slipped her arms around his back. The first kiss was tentative, gentle. He stood quietly, allowing her to take the lead, though his arms tightened around her and held her close. They kissed again, exploring, tasting. She sighed and opened her mouth to him as his kiss deepened with a sudden fierce hunger.

His hands moved up to twine themselves in her hair, and he pulled her head back gently. "Cassandra ..."

"Yes?" she said, smiling. His eyes had darkened to the gray of winter storm clouds, but he did not smile back. She reached up to trace the edge of his cheek, but he flinched away. Her hand dropped, and her voice was suddenly unsure. "Connor?" she asked. "What is it?"

He hesitated and wet his lips. "We - are not married."

She lifted one eyebrow in an eloquent shrug and blinked. "No," she agreed, "we are not. Does that matter?"

"Does it matter?" he asked, scandalized. "But ... it's ... it's a sin."

"A sin?" Her voice was a mixture of surprise and amusement. It was curious, Cassandra thought, that what one religion held to be a sacred and holy act, another religion regarded as evil and sinful. She was of the first opinion, while he had been raised to believe in the second. Or at least she knew that it should be sacred; she also knew that it could be perverted and evil. "Did the priests tell you this?" she asked

"Aye, they did. It's a sin! It's not a sin when it's between husband and wife, to bring children, but otherwise, yes, of course, it's a sin."

"Ah." She nodded slowly. "Yes, of course." She stepped back a little. "Come, let's sit in front of the fire."

Sela lay on the floor right before the hearth, and she thumped her tail once as they came over. She stood and stretched languorously, then padded noiselessly to the door and waited. Connor let her out, and then he and Cassandra settled on the low chairs in front of the fire, grateful for the warmth of the flames.

For several moments they watched the fire, Connor's hands pleating the edge of his breacan over and over, while hers lay quietly in her lap. She asked, "Ramirez told you, did he not, that Immortals cannot have children?"

"Aye, he did."

"Then with Heather, you knew there could be no children."

"Aye." Connor shifted uncomfortably on his chair. "I never told Heather. That way, it would not be a sin for her. Only for me, you ken."

Cassandra did not comment; she suspected that Ramirez had told Heather there would be no children. But still, what a tragic waste to spend a lifetime believing - or at least fearing - that the act of love was an act of sin.

"If, as you say, it is a sin, then should Immortals forswear love because we cannot have children?" she asked.

Connor looked at the fire, considering.

"Should we forswear it for decades? For centuries?" He blinked at that, and she smiled wryly. While she had been celibate for that length of time, she doubted he would. She pressed her point. "For millennia?"

"That would be a long time," he admitted.

"A very long time, indeed," she agreed dryly. "And it might seem even longer." She was pleased to see at least the hint of a grin at that.

"It's just ... I've never thought of it," he confessed.

The strong planes of his face were outlined by the firelight; flickering shadows danced in the hollows under his cheekbones and deepened the darkness of his eyes. His gaze was turned inward, the terrible and unseeing stare of one confronted with past mistakes and unresolved sorrows.

Cassandra knew that look all too well. She knew that the grief was still there. And the guilt. "When you and Heather married, it was until death, was it not?" she asked.

He nodded, his eyes still unseeing.

"And you did stay with her until death. You were faithful to her, and faithful to your vow."

He nodded again, more slowly this time.

Cassandra slipped off her chair and knelt beside him. She took his hand in hers; he did not resist. "Connor, you made that vow before you knew about Immortals. Do you think it will work that way for Immortals? To marry until death?"

He lifted his head and looked at her, but said nothing. That was how it was done.

"Those rules were designed for mortals." She did not think they were designed very well, but no matter. "The rules do not work for Immortals in the same way. It's different. We are different."

She waited patiently while he struggled to come to terms with yet another facet of his immortality. She could have used the Voice and compelled him to agree with her, but to force another by any means in this area would truly be a sin. No matter what else she had done or would do, Cassandra would never break the vow she had sworn in that matter.

She knew, too, that physical love could be a source of much joy and solace, and she knew just how much Connor would need comfort in the years and centuries ahead. It would suit her well if he turned to her for comfort, but Connor must make this decision on his own.

When she judged the time to be right, she added, "Heather would want you to be happy."

He swallowed and gave a small nod. "Aye, she would." He blinked hard. "She was always a generous soul."

"What we share together here, now, is no betrayal of her." She moved to kneel in front of him and took both of his hands in hers. "And there need be no vows between us, Connor, beyond the vow of friendship. It is enough."

He appeared uncertain, and she continued, "The priests say, I know, that if we are not married we must live alone, never touching, never loving." Her grip tightened. "Oh, Connor, we are so alone already." She blinked back tears. Always alone.

"The rules of the priests are the rules of this time, this place. We are Immortal, Connor," she emphasized. "We will live beyond these times." She sat back a little, remembering. "I have seen many churches come and go, and heard many priests say many things." And they seldom agree with each other, she thought wryly, and are willing to kill each other over the things they say. This latest group of religions even denied the Mother; she wondered how long that would last. Connor knew only the God, and she did not think now was the time to mention the Goddess.

Cassandra continued, "The God I have known throughout all the years is the same god. He is a God of love. How can God begrudge us a few moments with each other, to bring comfort and joy?" She blinked again, but this time the tears fell.

Connor leaned forward and let go of her hands to gently brush the tears away. "Cassandra, I do not know. I begin to think He will not. But..." He sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands back and forth on his knees. "I've never..." He cleared his throat and wiped his hand across his mouth. "Except for Heather..., I've not..."

How like him to be so diffident, so unsure of himself in this, she thought fondly. "Connor." A small smile played about her mouth. "Love is always love." She reached up to trace the edge of his cheekbone. This time he did not flinch away.

Her finger trailed down his strong jaw, feeling the rough stubble of his beard, then followed the fullness of his lips. Her hands moved upward and tangled in the softness of his shoulder-length hair. She had ached to touch his hair. She closed her eyes and pulled his head to hers.

This kiss was not the soft exploration of before. It held the hunger and pain of years of loneliness, of two people who knew they had only a brief time together. Their breaths mingled, and his arms went about her tightly as he stood and lifted both of them to their feet.

He carried her to the bed, and her hair hung about them in a shimmering curtain. At the bedside she stood facing him while her hands slowly unthreaded the leather of his belt. His hands were equally busy at the laces of her bodice. They did not speak, but looked deep into each other's eyes, asking for and receiving consent. When the belt came free, his breacan hung loosely about him, and she reached up and slid it from his broad shoulders, leaving him clad only in his sark. Her hands lingered as they moved down his arms, feeling the smooth curves and indentations of powerful muscles.

Her laces took but a moment longer, and his hands pushed the embroidered fabric off her shoulders, and he let the garment drop to the floor. The corset followed, and the thin fabric of her cream-colored shift rose and fell with each breath. He untied the strings of her skirts and easing them over her slim hips, so that they fell to the floor. She stepped out of the pool of cloth and caught his hands in her own, for they were not yet ready to stand naked in front of each other. She pulled him down with her, into the softness of the bed and the comfort of each other.

They were tentative at first, lying side by side and kissing lightly while their hands intertwined. Their fingers caressed gently, moving in a way that measured and tested the strength and suppleness of the other. Palm to palm, barely touching sensitive fingertips, then gripping tightly to feel the solidity of bone and flesh against one's own, then gentle again, thumbs circling over palms and tracing the bones in the backs of the hands. In the hushed stillness of waiting, neither spoke. The hands slowed and then stopped, and he moved his head back and looked into her eyes, shining darkly in the dim firelight. The waiting was over.

He rolled on top of her, and his eyes narrowed and darkened. He stared down at her for a moment, then his mouth descended on hers. This kiss was not gentle; it was savage, a ravenous hunger and need. Cassandra closed her eyes and opened her mouth to it, not surprised to find an answering hunger in herself. She had been alone so long, ever since Ramirez had died, and longer still before that.

Their hands were still intertwined and he gripped hers tightly. She moved underneath him as his tongue plunged deep. The flickering within her grew and spread until the flames warmed her limbs.

Connor groaned deep in his throat as she moved underneath him. Her shift had twisted higher, and he could feel the silken smoothness of her thighs between his own. She arched her hips, and she heard Connor's sharp gasp when he felt the sudden pressure against his groin.

He drew a shaky breath as she lay back down on the bed and tugged impatiently on his sark, pulling it up out of the way. She watched his face carefully as the roughness of his sark against him was replaced by the smoothness of her shift. Then bit by bit she pulled her shift ever higher. She saw him swallow hard as he felt the smooth fabric sliding with agonizing slowness across him, until at last there was no barrier between them.

He pushed her down into the bed and kissed her deeply, his hands tangling in her hair. He lifted his head from hers and stared into her eyes.

"Connor," she said softly, "please." He positioned himself above her, and she wrapped her legs loosely around his. "Now," she demanded, "now!" She guided him to her and stopped breathing as she felt his heat slowly enter and fill her.

Cassandra looked up into his eyes which glowed with passion and felt an unexpected wave of tenderness sweep over her, along with fierce hunger and need. There was an intensity and an openness about him that touched and aroused her, even as it unsettled her. She saw the way he looked at her, the steady gaze that held back nothing. She knew there was no place in her life for this, no place for love, however much she wanted it. Roland would eventually destroy it, as he had destroyed everything and everyone she had ever loved. But just for now, just this once, just for a little while, she wanted this time of love. She wanted Connor. Her smile faded, and her lips parted slightly as she stared into his eyes. She brushed away a lock of light-brown hair from his forehead and slowly traced the outline of his face. "Connor." It was a mingled gasp of pleasure and wonder.

Slowly then, he began to move. Cassandra wrapped her long legs tightly around his narrow waist, and held onto his shoulders. Her whole body moved in response to him, and she felt the heat from her body flowing into his. She held him as it traveled through his groin and up his belly, finally reaching the cold silent places within his heart, and then she heard him murmur her name. She held him close to her.

The heat grew and expanded, wave after wave flowing through them, until at last it consumed them and burned away the boundaries between them, so that their bodies and souls merged. They clung to each other, unable to move, forgetting to breathe, caught up in the burning need to possess and be possessed, to be stretched somehow beyond themselves, to join with another and not feel alone.

Afterward, they were content to lie quietly for a time, holding each other close. He shivered slightly as a cold draft made its way inside the bed hangings. Cassandra uncrossed her legs and used her feet to hook the edge of the blanket, then drew it closer until she could reach it with her hands. She tucked the blanket in around them and then hugged him to her. He kissed her quickly, then rolled off her and pulled her close to him, and she wrapped her arms around him again.

"Sleep, Connor," she whispered. His eyes flickered and then closed. She waited until his breathing became regular and even. He lay beside her, his head pillowed on her hair. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, as she said to him now what she could never say to him when he was awake, "Sleep, my love."

* * *

When they woke, Connor stretched and lifted his head slightly to look down at the outline of their feet, hidden under the blanket, where her toes reached past his own. His gaze traveled up the slim length of her. The blanket had twisted and clung in an intriguing way to the fullness of her backside. That soft roundness gave way to the longer, shallower curve of her lower back, a firm strength there of sinew and bone. His fingers continued to trace what his eyes could not see. His hand followed her spine up to the nape of her neck, and buried itself there in the wealth of thick hair.

He had been surprised by the depth of passion she had shown. During his time with her he had seen her beauty, the smooth line to her long lovely neck, the graceful way she moved, her controlled poise like a cat, a dancer, a warrior. Though she smiled sometimes, or even laughed, her face was always calm and composed. He had never seen her angry or sad, never seen her surprised or delighted. He had thought she did not care; he had thought that was how one survived as an Immortal: expecting nothing, expecting everything. He had not realized she had merely been hiding behind that cool facade.

She stirred against him and smiled, a contented sleepy smile.

Connor smiled back, pleased to have seen the real Cassandra. He let go of her hair and splayed his fingers out to massage the base of her skull. His thumb made minute circles in the tender spot just behind her ear. "You're quite a lengthy lass, to be sure," he commented, his gaze retracing its path and arriving at their feet. Heather's toes had been just above his feet when her head was pillowed on his shoulder.

"Mmmm," she replied, purring against his hand. She tilted her head just enough to grin at him mischievously. "You're quite a lengthy lad yourself."

Connor's hand stopped and his mouth hung open while the rush of heat flooded his face. He shut his mouth quickly and managed to produce the rather strangled sound of "Mmmph."

Cassandra dissolved into giggles and buried her face in his neck.

"Oh, laughing is it?" he asked menacingly. "I would not have thought a witch to giggle. Cackle maybe, or glower, but not giggle."

Cassandra took a deep shuddering breath and lifted her head. "Oh," she said, "you should have seen your face." She smiled at him in open enjoyment, her eyes dancing with merriment.

He smiled back a little grudgingly, but with warmth in his gray eyes. He watched her as the merriment in her eyes slowly changed into a deep steady gaze of longing. Their smiles faded as he answered her look with an intent hungry stare. Connor reached for her, and she came willingly into his arms. His mouth slanted across hers, and his tongue thrust deep.

She did not meet his tongue with her own, but allowed him to enter as he would. She wrapped her arms around him and arched upwards as she dug her nails into his back.

At the sudden unexpected pain, Connor froze, and his hunger changed to anger. He broke from the kiss and gripped her by the arms, pulling her away from him. He moved quickly to seize her right hand and pin it on the pillow next to her head, while his other hand tangled in her hair and pulled her head back, exposing the softness of her throat to him.

Cassandra felt a flash of alarm as Connor gripped her wrist tightly and his lips moved hungrily to the smooth skin of her neck. His weight was on top of her, and she could not move. This was not passion; this was rage. She had not fully realized just how angry he was, and she knew that Connor did not know the depth of his anger either. She knew where the anger came from; she had seen it in others and in herself. He was angry with fate for making him Immortal. He was angry with Heather for growing old and dying, and he was angry with himself for not growing old and dying. He was angry with the mortals who had rejected him, and he was angry with Ramirez for being killed. And even though he had returned to the cottage and called her friend, he was angry most of all with her-his teacher, his betrayer, his lover, his killer.

The anger was not acknowledged, not admitted, not reasonable. He would deny feeling the anger if she asked him; his eyes would turn the flat opaque gray of slate, and his face would go still and silent. But she did not have to ask, she could feel it in the tenseness of his body and the way he was overpowering her now.

It took Cassandra only a second to recognize his anger and to realize that he despised her for betraying him. Only a second to decide to release all his anger now, else it fester through the years, and the anger turn into hate, as it had once before. She could not bear to have him hate her through the centuries.

He was still on top of her, one hand tight in her hair, the other pinioning her hand. She moaned deep in her throat, and he lifted his head just enough to come down again in another demanding kiss. Cassandra writhed under him, and he unconsciously tightened his grip, grinding the bones in her hand together. This time she moaned in pain, but the noise was smothered under his lips.

She pulled her left arm free and wrapped it around the back of his neck, holding him close. Then she bit down hard on his lip. He jerked, but she did not let go, and she tasted the warm salt of blood in her mouth while her fingernails raked along the nape of his neck, drawing more blood lines there.

Cassandra let go of his lip then, and he reared back and grabbed her left hand away from his neck and slammed it down on the pillow. She lay beneath him, both arms immobilized as his hands gripped her wrists. He stared down at her, confused. "What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice hoarse with anger and lust.

She slowly licked his blood from her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Oh, Connor," she said mockingly, "you are such a fool." She could see the confusion in his eyes change to rage at her words. His eyes narrowed to mere slits, and the generous curve of his lips thinned to a hard line. He gripped her wrists so tightly that her fingers were curled into claws.

His next words came from the depth of his rage and were more breathed than spoken. "You bitch."

When she saw the look on his face it took all Cassandra's willpower to continue, but she knew it was too late to stop now. Just a little more, she thought desperately, frantically, not really thinking at all, and the beast within him will be loose. And so she smiled, the cool contemptuous smile that did not touch her eyes, that same mocking smile that had been on her face while he lay bleeding to death on the ground.

Cassandra deliberately kept that smile on her face even as she saw Connor swallow hard and his face go pale. His gray eyes glittered like black ice shards. Then Connor smiled slightly, a cruel copy of her own, and she felt her heart go cold. She had no sword now, and she was helpless beneath him. He let go of her wrists and encircled the smooth column of her neck with his hands. His thumbs dug into the lower part of her jaw, the same place he had so recently kissed.

As his hands went around her neck, Cassandra panicked. Not this! No! Not again! Being strangled was her least favorite way to die. Especially being strangled in bed, feeling a man's weight on her, seeing his face above her. She wrenched from side to side and tried desperately to pull his hands away. She dug her nails into his wrists until she felt his blood dripping, slow drop by slow drop, on her throat.

Connor did not seem to notice her hands on his wrists. "Bitch," he repeated, gritting the word out through his teeth.

Cassandra remembered from long experience and bitter experiments the fastest way to end this, but she could not stop herself from struggling against him. Tears of pain welled up in her eyes, and she felt the moisture trickle down her temples into her hair.

A part of her accepted the pain, even welcomed it. The pain was repayment, penance for the pain she had caused him, the pain she had caused in others. Part of her thought that she deserved it. There was a beast in her, too, the hidden dark part which smiled at blood. She needed his help to tame it, and she wanted to submit to him, to seek absolution and take the penance and the punishment he meted out.

But there was still a small silent part of her that did not accept it, that wanted to live. She gave a desperate lurch beneath him and almost threw him off her. Connor's hands tightened convulsively and twisted violently to one side, snapping her neck.

As she died, Cassandra remembered going to confession in the convent and receiving her penance. "Ten decades of the rosary and an act of contrition, Sister." She heard the voices singing far away: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

* * *

Connor did not at first realize she was dead. For him the world had collapsed until he saw only her face before him, and felt only savage joy as he saw that smile replaced by fear. Connor was beyond words, caught up in overwhelming rage. She had done it to him again. Soft words, soft looks, then the knife in the back. He would wipe that smile from her face.

His hands were still about her throat, his teeth still clenched in hate and rage. It was only when her hands fell away from his wrists that he stopped squeezing. He let go slowly, and her head lolled brokenly to one side. The marks on her throat were livid against the pale skin. The rage drained away, replaced by a cold terrible numbness that started in the pit of his stomach and spread. He started shaking then, a trembling that started at his hands and shook his whole body.

He climbed off her clumsily. She looked smaller somehow, lying so still on the great bed. He pulled the covers up over her, and brushed a tendril of hair away from her face. God in heaven, what had he done? He had wanted to kill her with his bare hands, and he had. He stumbled away from the bed, away from her.

Connor sat down numbly in front of the fire and stared at his hands. They were still trembling; he clenched them tightly. He had never been that angry before, that blind with fury. Not when his clan had cast him out. Not when Kate had screamed "Demon!" at him. Not when he had come back to find his home destroyed and Heather hiding nearby, while Ramirez lay dead by the Kurgan's hand. Never.

He took little comfort in knowing that Cassandra would revive. What if that had been a mortal woman underneath his hands? Would he have killed her? What kind of a man was he, to kill a woman in bed? And to have enjoyed it? Connor felt the sour taste of bile in his throat and gagged. Admit it, he thought wretchedly; you enjoyed it, you wanted to kill her. You have dreamed about killing her, ever since she killed you. And killed you. And killed you.

The hate and rage came up again as he remembered that day, though it was muted now by revulsion at himself. Connor suddenly realized that Cassandra had known he was still angry. Of course, she had known. And knowing that, she had deliberately provoked him, taunted him, reminded him of his humiliation. She must have known how he would react. Had she wanted him to kill her? Sweet Jesus, why? What kind of a woman would ask to be killed?

The answer came, chilling in its simplicity -the kind of woman who kills her student three times in one day, who knows the price to be paid for each killing, and who wants her student to know it as well. And Connor knew. He knew the white-hot rage and the buried lust for power and control that could overtake him. He knew the self-loathing and disgust that followed. He knew that he was a killer, just as she was, and he could not despise her anymore without despising himself. He may have said he was not her student anymore, but she had just taught him the most bitter lesson of all. And the anger started again.

* * *

As Cassandra took the first painful breath and revived, she knew there was another Immortal nearby. She lay limp and relaxed, keeping completely still, her eyes closed. She was alone in the bed; there was no one close by. No one was touching her. Then she remembered. She was in her own bed, in her own cottage, and the other Immortal was Connor. She swallowed carefully. It still hurt. Neck wounds always seemed to heal more slowly than other wounds.

She opened her eyes and got out of bed, pulling her robe on for warmth. The room spun around her, and she held onto the bedpost for support.

Connor was sitting in front of the fire, his back to her. She felt a slow dread coiling deep inside her, but she forced herself to walk over to him and kneel in front of him. Connor did not acknowledge her; he merely stared at his hands which now lay loosely in his lap. She did not speak; there had been enough words. She bent her head and kissed his hands, the hands which had just killed her. She kissed the palm of each hand, feeling the roughness of calluses, the smoothness of skin. She kissed the tender skin on the inner wrist, the webbing of the thumb. Tears fell, and she tasted the salt in the kisses of absolution and penitence.

Finally, Connor moved and cupped her face between his hands, tilting her head up. Cassandra made sure that only forgiveness and understanding showed in her eyes; she carefully hid her fear. He leaned forward to kiss her firmly and clasped her hands in his. The marks on her throat and wrists had already faded, but the marks of her tears were still there. Connor kissed them away, using his tongue where the salt had dried. Then she did the same for him.

He led her to the bed and removed her robe and then her shift, so that she stood naked before him. He gently pushed her down on the bed. Cassandra lay quietly, using her long experience to hide all traces of her terror. She had absorbed his anger, now she must restore his pride. She would do whatever he wished; she deserved whatever he decided to do. Connor climbed into the bed and pulled the bed curtains closed, then lay down on his side next to her. She fought back panic and closed her eyes as he flung his leg over hers and twined his fingers in her hair. This was Connor, she reminded herself. He was angry and hurt and confused, but he was not a sadistic, vicious bastard. She had survived worse; she could survive this. She could.

Connor's breaths sounded loud in her ears, while she was not sure she was breathing at all. She could feel his head move slowly closer, his breath warm on her cheeks.

When his lips were just barely brushing her own, he whispered, "Open your eyes."

She saw that his eyes were savagely intent on her, but lacked the murderous rage of before. Perhaps this would not be so bad.

"Open your mouth to me," he commanded, his lips still touching hers. He waited without breathing.

She swallowed nervously and licked her lips carefully, accidentally touching his lips with her tongue.

He did not pull his head back, but waited until she opened her mouth. Connor smiled, the smile he had learned from her, and Cassandra felt her heart go cold again. Perhaps she had been wrong.

His earlier kiss had been savage, but this was brutal. He let his entire weight fall on her, and she could barely breathe. He took hold of her wrists again and pulled them up so that he held her arms tightly above her head. Finally he lifted his head, and Cassandra drew a deep shuddering breath, but she did not protest, did not move. She merely watched him.

Connor wedged his knee roughly between her legs. He let go of her wrists and braced himself above her on his hands and knees. He looked at her coldly. "Now open your legs."

Cassandra heard the anger and determination in his voice. She knew that Connor did not want this to be rape. He wanted her to voluntarily submit herself completely to him. He needed to reclaim some of the pride which she had left bleeding in the dust in front of the cottage. Her obedience was part of her penance. She spread her thighs, for Cassandra knew that in this, a surrender was a victory.

Connor kissed her again, not as brutally as before, but still taking, not sharing. "Open yourself to me," he demanded huskily, his voice soft against her ear.

Cassandra shivered at his words and felt the shiver reach down to her center. She pulled his sark up over his hips, being careful not to touch him. He must be in control now. Though they were not touching anywhere, she could feel the warmth that radiated from the solid length of his manhood, hovering just above her belly. She reached between her legs and with her fingers spread apart the soft folds that guarded her innermost being, and she waited.

Connor moved backward slightly and paused, looking down at her. Unable to bear the intensity of his gaze, the pain and the anger there, Cassandra closed her eyes.

"Open your eyes, damn you!" he demanded. "I want you to see me."

Cassandra reluctantly opened her eyes and looked at him, seeing in his face the hurts she had inflicted. He would allow her no place to hide. The Mother Superior would certainly not have considered this a proper act of contrition, but Cassandra did. She could feel his nearness, for now the heat was not on her belly; it radiated from a single point just barely grazing her.

Connor hesitated a moment more, then in a violent thrust he buried himself in her. Cassandra gasped, then went still. He did not move either. He was still braced partly on his knees above her; they touched only at that one most intimate point. She reached up with her arms to draw him closer, but he pinned her arms above her head again, denying her that privilege, and he smiled at her.

She was helpless, stretched out beneath him, her body open to him. He lowered his head to hers slowly, then kissed her softly. He urged her lips apart with his tongue, and gently drew her lower lip between his own. Then he suddenly bit down hard.

As her own blood flowed into her mouth, Cassandra whimpered in pain and stiffened, but she did not resist.

He let go, and slowly and carefully licked the blood off her lip, then lowered himself onto her. Only then did he begin to move.

Cassandra wrapped her legs around him and tried to adapt herself to his rhythm as he drove himself into her with great punishing thrusts. She hovered on the raw edge between pleasure and pain. She felt somehow beyond her own skin, yet still exquisitely aware of the rub of his thighs against her own, the thin film of sweat on their bodies, the pulsating heat at her core. She dimly heard a high gasping sound and realized it was the sound of her own frantic breaths for air.

Connor finally let go of her wrists, and his tempo increased. Then there was no time to breathe, no chance to move, as he gave his last convulsive thrusts and buried himself deep within her. As he slowly relaxed on top of her she wrapped her arms and legs around him and held him close.

Gradually his breathing slowed. As his reason returned, she could feel the tenseness enter his body. He started to pull away from her, but she wrapped herself around him more tightly. "Stay ...," she asked.

"No."

She knew he could not stand to touch her. She let him go and watched him dress and leave the bed. It hadn't been nearly so bad as she had feared. He hadn't even hit her. But she also knew it was not over yet.

* * *

Connor sat at the table, staring at the fire again, his hands lying empty in his lap. God damn the bitch! How did she make him do these things? First he had killed her, and now he had all but raped her. He had never thought he could do that to a woman either.

He knew he did not trust her; he did not even like her, but he knew he had wanted her. Oh, yes, he had wanted her. He had wanted to control her as she had controlled him; he had wanted to humiliate her, to hurt her, maybe even to kill her again. He swallowed hard as he remembered the feel of her under him, remembered his thoughts as he had driven himself over and over again into the softness of her body: Damn this woman! Damn her, damn her, damn her! Lying, deceitful, vicious, arrogant bitch! Never again, never again, never would she deceive him! He-would-not-let-her!

And he would not. Never again. Connor looked up as Cassandra sat down across from him at the table. She had dressed again in her shift and her robe, and she looked pale. Maybe even a little nervous. Good. He looked at her coldly, determined to understand this woman, to understand what she had made him do. "Why did you want me to kill you?" he asked bluntly.

She blinked at that and seemed surprised. "Well." She considered his words for a moment. "I can't say I wanted you to kill me. Especially that way." She shuddered slightly, and a look of distaste crossed her face. "I really dislike being strangled, nor do I care much for having my neck snapped."

Connor couldn't help but laugh in shock. "Do you have a favorite way to die?" he asked in disbelief.

"No," she said, reflecting on the matter. "Not really. They all hurt. But some ways are more -unpleasant- than others."

Connor's mouth twisted in agreement. He went back to his original question. "Then why?"

She moistened her lips with her tongue and gave a small sigh. "I could tell you were still - angry with me."

Connor laughed again, a dry humorless laugh.

Cassandra's mouth quirked upward on one side in agreement. "And I knew that you had reason to be. I have hurt you very badly." She looked at him earnestly, "I am sorry, Connor."

He watched her with a stony gaze, waiting. When she said nothing more, he asked, "Sorry that you hurt me very badly before, or sorry that you hurt me very badly now?"

She paused. "What do you mean?" she asked uncertainly, her hand going to her throat.

He made an impatient gesture. "Your neck is already healed," he said dismissively. "The stab wounds you gave me are healed. As Immortals," he said, laying particular emphasis on those two words, "the outer wounds heal quickly. You know that."

She was still acting as if she did not understand; Connor felt a flash of irritation that started to burn away his earlier numbness. He leaned forward on the table and said distinctly, "Our inner wounds do not."

"I don't know what you-," she started.

He slammed both hands down on the table in a rage and stood up, leaning over her. "Don't tell me you didn't know what you were doing," he said, cold and venomously quiet, his face very close to hers. "You killed me earlier, and I accepted that, because I could see how you thought it was part of learning to be an Immortal. I didn't like it, but I accepted it. So I came back. But making me kill you?" He paused, the numbness completely gone now in a searingly cold fury.

"You wanted to drag me down with you, make me into the same kind of a killer you are." His breaths came short and sharp, and his eyes narrowed even more. "You wanted me to feel guilty for killing you, the same way you feel guilty about killing me!"

Cassandra did not move or speak at his words.

As he stared into her beautiful impassive face, Connor felt his ice-cold fury start to turn into white-hot rage again, and his hands began to clench and unclench, as he remembered the satisfying feel of her neck beneath his hands. He stood up abruptly and walked away from the table, feeling sick. Holy Mother of God, he thought, I want to kill her again.

He stood staring out the window for several moments, his palms flat against the smooth cold glass. When his fingers had stopped trembling, he spoke in a low flat voice, still looking into the dark. "All those things you said before, about the rules of the priests, and God being a God of ... love," the word came hard, but he swallowed and went on, "and being with you before and holding you close against my heart, and feeling that Heather would understand, and then ... what happened between us after ..."

He slammed his hands again, breaking through the thick glass. His wrists scraped over the jagged edges and drops of blood followed the amber shards out onto the snow. "How do you think that makes me feel?" He felt very tired. He leaned his head against the top pane and closed his eyes, absent-mindedly rubbing his wrists back and forth over the broken glass, slicing deeper and deeper into his wrists until the blood ran down his arms.

* * *

Cassandra sat frozen in her chair. She had kept her face calm as Connor spoke to her, all her centuries of training screaming at her to look composed, be in control, never show her emotions, but her soul was anguished as she realized what she had done. How had she been so blind? Connor had seen it; he saw that she was using him to try to escape her guilt, or at least to share it. But the fault was hers alone, and the guilt was hers as well. And now there was more.

Great Mother, she thought in despair, must I bring desolation and destruction to everyone I meet? In the second before she had acted, she had not fully thought about what would happen to Connor, so young, so inexperienced, so vulnerable. She had been selfish, seeking to use him to control her own lust for blood, to punish herself for what she had done, attempting at all costs to purge away his anger, desperate to avoid his hate. She had failed in that, as she had failed in so many other things.

She stood and walked toward him slowly, quietly. Connor did not turn, did not move. She gently lay her hands atop his, holding them still, moving them away from the glass. He did move then, flinging her off, backhanding her across the face and knocking her to the floor.

Cassandra tasted blood where her teeth had cut open the inside of her cheek, and her head throbbed from striking the edge of the chair. Connor was still standing at the window, but at least his hands were by his sides now. The blood still dripped from his hands, but more slowly now as the wounds on his wrists healed. He had been right; the outer wounds would heal quickly enough. She was not sure if the inner wounds would ever heal. His, or hers.

Connor did not turn when she stood and come toward him again. She reached in front of him to pull the shutters closed, keeping far away from him. He caught her slender wrists in one bloody hand and turned her to face him. With the other hand he roughly wiped away her tears, leaving a trail of his blood across her cheek. She did not flinch at his touch. Roland had taught her not to flinch.

"Why, Cassandra?" he repeated, his eyes intent upon her. "Why did you want me to kill you?"

She looked away, and he jerked her closer to him, holding her hands tight against his chest, forcing her to look at him. "I want the truth, Cassandra."

"You were right, I think," she said quietly, looking into his eyes, "though I did not realize it until you said it. I did feel guilty about killing you, and I wanted you to ... to punish me for it, perhaps." She drew a shaky breath and admitted, "I had no right to ask that of you."

His voice was hard and uncompromising. "You didn't ask."

She flushed at that. "No. I didn't." She said quietly, "If I had asked, what would you have done?"

Now it was his turn to flush, and he looked away from her, and inward. "I do not know ..." He shook his head impatiently. "I would not have ... not that way." He blinked, and loosened his grip on her wrists. "I did not know I could do such a thing." The last words came out as a whisper.

She did not move away from him when he released her. "We can all do such things."

He looked at her, disbelieving.

"Oh, yes," she assured him. "There's a beast in all of us, Connor. I have one, too. When I killed you earlier, I could feel it, growing stronger. Sometimes it's buried deep; sometimes it's just at the surface." She flexed her fingers into claws as he watched. "Scratch!" His blood and skin showed dark under her nails, and his fresh blood was smeared on her wrists and palms. "And out it comes, seeking blood."

She shrugged slightly. "It scares me, Connor, and I think that's part of the reason why I ... goaded you the way I did. I was afraid I couldn't control it by myself."

His gaze was icy, and his voice was bitter. "And who is going to help me control mine?"

She very cautiously laid a hand on his chest. "Sometimes letting it out is the only way to control it, Connor. We live a long time, and the pain and the anger are too much to contain. We have to let them out somehow, or they start to control us." She waited until he nodded, then continued, "I think your beast may be stronger than most, Connor. Don't ignore it too long."

He gave a final short nod, obviously uncomfortable with this discussion, and stepped back from her. His voice was cool and remote when he asked, "You said it was part of the reason. What's the other part?" He caught her by the wrist again as she started to turn away. "The truth," he reminded her.

She nodded, never taking her eyes from him. "The truth," she agreed. "Let's sit down," she suggested, and they went over to the fire.

Connor sat and waited for Cassandra to begin, carefully rubbing his arms clean with a rag. She took her time about it, placing another log on the fire, poking at the glowing embers. Finally, she asked, not looking at him, "Did you ever hate Ramirez?"

He gave a short dry bark of laughter. "Aye, I did. I even told him so once, and he just laughed and said it was a good way to start."

"Yes," she agreed. "It can be a good way to start." She looked down at her hands, still stained with his blood, then met his eyes. "But it is not a good way to end."

Cassandra started on her story. "Once..." She stopped, then said earnestly, explaining, "I didn't want you to be angry with me anymore, Connor, not the way you were. Pretending everything was fine on the outside, when you were still furious on the inside." She cocked her head to one side and considered him. "You are rather intimidating that way."

He shrugged, wishing she would get on with it.

She started again. "I didn't want you to hate me, the way ... the way my other student did. So I thought that if you got rid of your anger at me now, you wouldn't hate me later." She looked at the fire, where the flames had started to catch at the log.

She was silent for a very long time, and finally Connor asked, "What happened, Cassandra, with your other student?"

"We quarreled," she admitted, "though not about training. He hadn't even died the first time, and I hadn't yet told him about what I was, or what he would become. He was very young." She shrugged. "He did eventually come back, though it was a few years later, and he said he was sorry about what had happened. I was very happy to see him, and he was happy to be with me again. Or so I thought."

Connor waited, realizing that this story was very difficult for her.

She took a deep breath and continued, "And then, after several days, he ... he had really come back for my money." She stopped again, and then said in a monotone, "He attacked me in my bed one night. He beat me, and raped me, and then he strangled me to death."

Connor felt a cold chill down his spine at her words. It was not the same: he had not beaten her, and it had not been quite rape, but it was still much too close.

Cassandra quickly finished the tale. "When I revived, I left through the window. He was not expecting me to come back to life, and so I managed to escape."

Connor came to squat beside her and took her cold hands in his own. He saw more bloody marks on her palms where her fingernails had bitten deep. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know."

She looked at the floor and shook her head, her long hair brushing the sides of her face. "You couldn't know," she said. "And it was a long time ago. I just ... After I scratched you, and you held my wrist that way, and I couldn't move... and then... when you started to..."

"Did you think I was him?" he said, appalled. He had not even realized he had frightened her when he had done that.

"No," she said softly. Then she lifted her head and looked at him with haunted eyes. "Maybe...," she whispered.

The coldness spread from his spine to his heart as he realized what had been done to her before, what he had just done to her again.

Cassandra continued slowly, "I didn't ..." She took a deep breath. "I wasn't really -thinking- at all. And you are not him, and I know that. Now." She looked at him, and her eyes were lost. "I just couldn't stand to have you hate me the way he did," she whispered.

Connor held her hands tightly, his anger gone now that he understood. "I don't hate you, Cassandra." And he didn't, not anymore. His anger and his hate were gone, but so was his trust. He was not sure if he would ever trust anyone completely again. "I want you to do something for me, Cassandra," he said, coming to sudden decision.

She looked at him, waiting, her eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears.

"I want you to give me your sword." Her hands clenched under his, and he could feel the sudden stiffness throughout her whole body.

"What?" she demanded, the tears spilling over unheeded as her eyes narrowed.

"Give me your sword, as a show of good faith." She shook her head, and he continued, "I'll not stay another night under your roof unless you do. I won't live with you like this."

"And your sword?" she demanded.

He smiled, that slow lazy smile that she had taught him. "Mine I keep." She pulled away her hands away from him and glared at him. "You owe me, Cassandra," Connor said, using the guilt he knew lay heavy on her. Two could play at this game. He placed one hand gently on the underside of her chin and tilted her head up, the smooth delicate skin soft under his hand. He could tell she did not like to be touched like that. "You submitted to me before," he reminded her, and his gaze flicked over to the bed, "submit to me now."

Cassandra flushed, and her eyes narrowed with embarrassment and anger. She looked away from him, though he kept his hand on her chin. He waited, watching her as she took a deep breath and relaxed.

"Take it," she said dully.

Connor hesitated, uneasy with her sudden acquiescence.

She looked at him, and now her eyes were sad and hopeless instead of angry. "Take it," she said again, her voice infinitely weary.

Connor gave a short nod and came smoothly to his feet. He put on his boots and his furs, then retrieved both their swords from under the beds and went out into the cold.

Cassandra huddled on the chair and watched the door. Even without her sword, she knew she was not wholly defenseless. The sword was a symbol of her submission, but it was a powerful symbol, and she felt more naked and exposed now than she had when she was spread out beneath him on the bed.

But she had to give him her sword. She could not let him leave yet. Not when he was still angry at her, not before he had agreed to teach the Highland child.

And he was right; she owed him. Cassandra knew he had a right to be angry, and very good reason indeed not to trust her. And she knew she owed him for other things as well. She had been angry when he had reminded her of her submission. But then she had also remembered the dead tone of his words as he had stared out the window, and her anger had turned to hopelessness when she realized that she had broken yet another vow.

She had used the act of love as an act of power, making a mockery of all her fine words. What had she become? What had she done to Connor? How had she strayed so far from what she had been? She did not know, but she knew she wanted to go back. If she could. So she had agreed to his demand, hoping to find herself again.

Connor returned with his sword in his hand and Sela at his heels. He set his sword under the large bed in the place where hers had been, laying claim to her bed. He sat down opposite her once again, watching her with a steady gaze.

She was glad there was no hint of a smile on his face. Roland would have smiled.

"You told me before it is a hard life," he said, "and it makes for hard people."

She knew that all too well. They were interrupted by a long determined rumble from Connor's stomach. "Hungry?" she asked, ready enough to change the topic.

Connor considered the matter. "Yes."

Cassandra's stomach growled then, and they both laughed, nervous forced sounds. "Shall we eat?" she asked. He nodded, and Connor built up the fire while Cassandra washed her hands and started preparing food, finding comfort in the everyday task.

Sela whined, and Cassandra placed the food over the fire and then opened the door. Sela bounded outside excitedly. Cassandra called to Connor, "Come look!" The snow had stopped, and the sky had cleared. The full moon hung low in the sky, and touched every branch with silver. Long blue shadows lay across the land.

Connor came over and stood beside her. "Aye, I know," he said. "It's beautiful. But if we stand here much longer my feet will turn blue as well."

"Then let's run," she said, taking off her robe. Her earlier depression had been replaced by a giddy feeling of freedom, as if the prophecy she lived under had been taken away with her sword. Just for now, she could forget about Roland, forget about being an Immortal. Just for now, she could be free. She could be the person she once had been.

Connor looked at her incredulously. "Are you daft?"

"Let's run," she repeated. "The food won't be cooked for some time. We can go swimming." She smiled invitingly. "The water is warm," she reminded him. He hesitated, and she laughed and ran out the door clad only in her shift. "Catch me!" she called over her shoulder.

Connor stared at her for a second, then pulled the door shut behind him and ran. She was fast, and she had a head start on him. The snow was both icy cold and hot on his bare feet, and the frosty air burned into his lungs and nostrils. Sela leaped back and forth between them, delighted that her pack members were joining her in the run.

Connor caught up to Cassandra at the pool's edge. She looked exhilarated by the chase, and her cheeks were bright with cold and excitement as she smiled at him and stripped off her shift. He tugged at his own clothes, and emerged from his sark just in time to see her plunge into the pool.

Connor waded in more slowly, gasping as the warmth penetrated his frozen feet. He had learned there was no room for trust in an Immortal's life, but he decided he could make room for pleasure, as long as she did not touch his heart. And she would never touch his heart again.

Cassandra was in the deepest part of the pool, only her head showing above the dark waters. Her long hair floated around her, moving and undulating with the currents. He reached out for her again, but she disappeared beneath the surface. In a moment she came up behind him, splashing him playfully, and he whirled to face her.

"Catch me!" she repeated, then disappeared again.

Connor plunged after her and almost caught her by the ankle, but she swam like an otter, diving deep and twisting. And so they played, laughing and shrieking like children, splashing each other, washing away the pain.

Finally he caught her by the hand, and she came to him, slippery and warm. Her hair clung to her shoulders and twined about his arms as they kissed long and hard. His arms went about her waist and lifted her. She wrapped her legs loosely around him until they found each other, and she settled onto him slowly.

His feet were firmly braced on the bottom of the pool, but she was suspended, held safely by his arms behind her. She leaned her head back and arched away from him, her hair streaming out into the water.

Snow started to fall again. It melted after an instant on the surface of the water, but remained to spangle their hair and leave delicious pinpricks of cold on their shoulders and faces. The tips of her breasts rose from the water like twin islands. Connor leaned over and swept his tongue over the peaks, licking away the snowflakes.

They moved together slowly in the age-old rhythm, and the warm water of the pool bathed their skin. Adrift in a sea of sensation, there was no anchor save each other. There could be no harsh pounding, no violent storm. There could be only a gradual inexorable surging as Connor lifted her in and out of the water, and Cassandra clasped and unclasped herself around him. The waves grew ever higher, surging and swelling until at last they crested and broke upon the shore. The waves receded slowly, ebbing and flowing, and left them floating boneless in the sea.

After a time, she kissed him softly. "I am sorry, Connor," she said quietly. "I wish ... I wish things were different, that things could be different between us."

Connor did not answer, but leaned his head against her hair and held her tightly. It wasn't her fault that they were Immortals, that they had to be killers to survive. "Do not fash yourself, lassie," he said after a long moment, using the casual words to cover his feelings, willing his feelings away. "It's nae your fault."

Cassandra clung to him, but she did not answer.

* * *

Back in the cottage, they briskly rubbed each other dry in front of the fire and dressed quickly. "Is the food ready?" asked Connor, running his fingers through his hair. "I'm starving."

"No surprise there," said Cassandra, as she placed the bowls on the table. "You've been busy." She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, too, but she restrained herself. It was too soon; they were not yet that comfortable with each other.

"Aye, well, running and swimming do take a lot out of a man," answered Connor blandly.

They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the warmth of the food and the fire. After they ate, Connor went to feed the sheep while Cassandra cleaned up from the meal. She was washing the last bowl when she sensed his approach.

Connor came back in the cottage with Sela at his heels. He nodded briefly to her, then added a log to the fire. Cassandra turned to reach for a towel, then froze, startled, as his voice sounded softly in her ear. "Are you finished?" he asked.

She took a deep breath and relaxed as he placed his hand on her belly, his fingers splayed and moving downward. His other hand cupped her breast, his thumb gently brushing the now-hard peak.

"Again?" she asked, amused.

"Being an Immortal does have its advantages," he replied. "We recuperate quickly."

"That you do," she agreed, pressing against him and feeling the full extent of his recuperation against her backside. She set the bowl and the towel down and laid her hands over his, then shivered slightly. "Your hands are cold," she said accusingly.

"So find me a place to warm them," he challenged her.

She laughed softly and led him to the bed. Connor sat down on the edge and pulled her onto his lap. He kissed her ardently, and she did not complain about the coldness of his hand as it wandered under her shift and up her thigh.

A sudden thump on the other side of the bed interrupted the kiss. Connor turned quickly. Sela's amber eyes were intent on them, her ears tilted forward inquisitively and her front paws on the edge of the bed. "And just how long have you been standing there?" he demanded. The wolf's tongue lolled out, looking black against the white teeth in the firelight, and Sela cocked her head.

Connor grinned and whispered to Cassandra, "Should we put her in the shed? I'd rather not have her attacking my feet."

"Oh, no need for that. She's learned quite a bit."

"She's going to learn quite a bit more if she keeps watching," Connor observed.

Cassandra chuckled at that, then spoke to the wolf. "Lie down." Sela rumbled in answer, then padded noiselessly across the room to lie down in front of the fire again. Cassandra returned her attention to Connor. "Now where were we?" she asked.

He bent his head to hers again, one hand moving to the back of her neck, under the dampness of her hair. His other hand cupped the underneath of one warm rounded breast, his thumb lightly brushing the prominent peak. He squeezed gently, then harder, making her gasp as the sensation blazed a trail to her center. Connor pulled her down on the bed with him.

Cassandra twined her legs around his and rolled with him, pushing him back against the pillows. She leaned on one elbow and used her free hand to lay a finger on his lips. He stared at her, waiting. "Will you let me be your teacher for a bit, Connor?" She kissed him lightly, teasingly, and traced the outlines of his full lips with the tip of her tongue.

"A teacher?" he asked, his voice suddenly cold.

Cassandra stopped and took a deep breath. The hard-won intimacy was still fragile. "Not like that," she assured him. "This lesson is a pleasant one." Her hand moved slowly underneath his sark on his chest, feeling the ripple of muscles underneath, the solid feel of bone under smooth skin and soft hair.

He tightened his arm around her and pulled her to him, kissing her thoroughly. "Well, then," he said, "You're my teacher. For now."

"You will not need a teacher very long. I believe that you will prove to be a very apt pupil." He smiled lazily, and she gave him a wicked grin. "Now lie still," she said. She undid the lacing on his sark, baring his chest. He relaxed into the pillows, his arms falling next to his sides. She kissed him lightly again, then placed more butterfly kisses over his face and neck, humming softly in her throat.

"What's that song?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Am I singing?" She paused, and then laughed a little at herself. "I did not realize it."

"What is it?"

"A tune I learned long ago." Very long ago, in the temple dedicated to the Goddess of Love. A temple where the art of love was indeed an art, and those who practiced it were artists. The temple was gone now, burned and broken, but the song remained.

His voice was suddenly husky, though still quiet. "I like to listen to you sing." They often sang together in the evenings, but he liked to listen to her sing songs from other times and other places.

"Do you?" She touched him lightly on the cheek. "Then you shall hear it."

She sang to him then, in her ancient tongue and his own together. She sang of the strength in his arms, of the beauty of his eyes, and of the gentleness of his hands. Her song was not of words alone, but of touch, of taste, of her entire being. It was a song of praise and wonder and cherishing, a song which celebrated and consecrated each and every thing that made him who he was.

She sang of the sweep of his eyebrows, of the silk of his hair, the curve of his ears, of the pulse that beat in the hollow of his throat, and the kisses followed the song. She kissed that small indention of his throat, so vulnerable, so tempting. She kissed it slowly, lingering, her thumbs gently stroking the underside of his jaw, then moving to sweep across the hard curves of his collarbone.

Her hands continued outward, kneading the firm muscles of his shoulders, while her kisses moved downward over his breastbone. Her hair curled about them and smelled of wood smoke and herbs.

The song told of his heart and of his courage, of the breath of life within him. The sark would open no further, and she lifted her head where the firm cage of ribs gave way to the supple skin of the belly.

The song had not stopped, nor had her hands. They followed the line of him down his sides, over the barely discernible curve at the juncture of thigh and hip. The pressure of her hands increased as they touched the hard resiliency of muscled thighs. She moved to the foot of the bed, and the song spoke of the fleetness of his feet, of the supple gracefulness of the curve of his calves, of the power of his thighs, of the silken strength of his staff of life.

"What the...!" Connor snatched down the edge of his sark before the song could change to its more active verse. "What are ye doing, woman?" he demanded, his hands still protectively at the hem of his sark and his legs drawn rigidly together.

Cassandra suppressed a sigh of exasperation and moved smoothly to lie down beside him, her hand lying quiet on his chest. "What do you mean?" she asked softly.

"Why, what you were about to... with your hands and your singing, you... " He floundered for words and then burst out, "You ken very well what I mean, damn it!"

"Yes," she admitted, "I suppose I do." She lifted her eyebrows. "You did seem to be enjoying it," she observed.

"Ah, well, I... " Connor blushed for the third time that night.

"And you did say I could be your teacher," she reminded him.

"Aye, I did, but to do, to do that... It isna right," he muttered and sat up, hunching his shoulders. "'Tis unclean. To do so is unnatural, and a sin."

She closed her eyes for a brief moment and drew a breath. "Did the priests tell you that, as well?"

"Aye," came the gruff response.

She placed both her hands gently on either side of his face, then leaned over and kissed him slowly and thoroughly on the mouth. "Your mouth is sweet." She lifted his hand and kissed his palm, then brushed her lips against the sensitive spot on the inside of his wrist, then did the same to his other hand. "Your hands are sweet, too."

She kissed his throat where the pulse beat steady and slow, then gently pushed him down until he lay once more on the bed. She moved her head to his chest and suckled briefly at each nipple, teasing it round with her tongue. He groaned deep in his throat and closed his eyes as she followed the path downward, stopping at the end of the breastbone as before. The warm pressure of her hand replaced the moistness of her mouth there as she moved back to look at him again.

"There is no part of you which is not sweet and good, Connor." Her hand slid under his sark, then moved down and began an almost imperceptible circular motion. "There is no part of you which God did not make, no part which is unclean."

She kissed him lightly on the mouth, while her hand moved very slowly in an ever-widening circle. He caught his breath. Her eyes were dark in the firelight, and her hair lay in silken strands over the bare skin of his arms and upper chest.

"We have discussed the rules of the priests already. Those kind of rules are not for us." Her hand slowed and stilled with the heel of her hand in the hollow of his navel. Her fingertips moved almost imperceptibly. "Will you not let me please you this way?"

While he hesitated, her hands quickly destroyed any chance of a logical argument from him. Finally he relaxed into the pillow and answered simply, "Yes."

She smiled, and the song began again. She started at his mouth this time, kissing him, letting him kiss her, becoming accustomed to each other once again. She wanted him to enjoy this experience, and she knew he was still uneasy. She placed more of the butterfly kisses on his face and decided on a massage.

She pulled the bedcurtains shut to keep the warmth contained within and then whispered, "Roll over." He looked at her curiously, but obliged. She lay beside him for a moment, merely enjoying looking at the wide outline of his shoulders under the rough wool fabric, the way the muscles and ribs tapered to a narrow waist, the firmness of his flanks, the strength of his thighs.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and traced the tense muscles there. She started kneading them firmly, then moved to straddle him, being careful not to place her weight on him. Connor groaned when her fingers reached a particularly sensitive spot just below his shoulder blades. She leaned forward so that her hair fell about him, and she whispered in his ear, "Too much?"

"No," he grunted, and she dug her thumbs in deeper, eliciting another groan. When the tightness in his shoulders was gone, she moved to his arms, then down the length of his back. Bare skin would have been better, but he was not ready for that yet, and the air was cool. She moved backwards, kneeling above his thighs. Her hands moved down the concave curve of his lower back, gently massaging at each backbone, taking her time.

Connor groaned again when she found the pressure point in the hollow of his buttocks, but she was pleased to see that he was still relaxed under her touch. He was enjoying the more restorative aspects of the lesson. That was fine, for now. She continued downward, moving to the backs of his thighs, being careful not to touch bare skin.

As an Immortal, Connor was, of course, immune to lingering aches and pains, but she knew how to find places in him he had not known existed, and she could tell he was completely relaxed.

He sighed in pleasure as she returned to his shoulders and pressed the sides of her hands away from his spine in long even strokes, sweeping away the tension. He gave a final great sigh when she finished making her way down his back. She leaned forward and lifted his hair off the nape of his neck. "Feel better?" she asked, whispering warm and smooth against the back of his neck.

"Mmmm," Connor managed.

"Good," she answered, and settled her weight comfortably on top of him. "But maybe you can feel better than that."

Connor could feel very well indeed. He could feel her breasts pressed against his back, her erect nipples points of firmness in circles of warmth. He could feel her thighs laying alongside his, flexing gently as she maintained her balance above him. Even through two layers of cloth, he could feel the soft brush of her hair in the cleft of his buttocks. He was also starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable lying on his stomach.

She kissed the soft whorls of his hair on his neck, and then slowly made her way down his back, gently rubbing against him as she moved.

Connor swallowed hard as her hands went to his thighs. They did not massage now, but stroked and teased. Her fingertips traced paths down the inside of his thighs, then traced the paths back up, going ever higher. He stopped breathing for a moment as he felt her hands slide up under his sark, kneading and pressing on the fluid gathering of muscles under the smooth skin of his flanks.

"Cassandra," he muttered in anguish. She laughed softly and slid her hands around to the front of his hipbones. He arched his back to allow her room, and her fingertips met at the dark line of hair on his belly. He groaned, and her hands retreated.

She took the opportunity to pull his sark up over his hips. "I want you naked," she said huskily, and continued to slide the cloth up toward his shoulders. She leaned her weight against him again, and now there was only one layer of cloth between them. She moved back, and Connor rolled to his side and tugged one arm out, and then the other. She pulled his sark off over his head and then pushed him down onto his back.

She kissed him swiftly. "You are beautiful," she said, and lifted his hand to her lips. Still watching him, she kissed his palm and then his wrist. Then she licked the tip of each finger, tasting and nipping. She slowly drew his forefinger into her mouth, holding it between her teeth and swirling her tongue around the tip. Connor bit down on his own lip as she started to suck on his finger. She slowly pulled her head back, her teeth scraping gently. She gave his fingertip a final caress with the tip of her tongue, then kissed him on the mouth again.

"I want you, Connor," she said against his lips. She pulled back and looked at him intently. "I want to touch you." As she spoke, her hand went to his belly, and pressed firmly against the skin just above the nest of curls. Connor felt an answering firmness and shifted his hips up in delicious agony.

"I want to taste you," she whispered, and kissed him again, then trailed a path of kisses down his bare chest, down the center line of the finely sculpted muscles, down to the hollow of his navel. Her tongue darted out and touched him there, a quick flash of warmth. The softness of her hair was spread over his chest, and he could feel her breath warm against him.

She lifted her head and looked at him, peering through her curtain of hair. "I want to feel you tremble beneath my hands," she said, and Connor did tremble as her other hand gently cupped the softly wrinkled sac between his legs. "You are beautiful," she repeated and bent her head.

Connor let out his breath in an explosive gasp as he felt the warmth of her tongue flicker over him, and lick off the drop of fluid that clung there. Relaxation was not possible, but he leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

She tasted him as she had earlier tasted his finger, swirling her tongue and then sucking, using her teeth to evoke shudders and gasps as she lifted her head. She licked her way up the shaft, following the throbbing vein that pulsed just beneath the silken skin, and took him into her mouth once more. One hand grasped him firmly, and followed his motion as he moved his hips, while her tongue and lips played with him teasingly, first flicking lightly, then holding him tightly.

Connor barely felt the pillows beneath him or the sheets on his skin. He was vaguely aware that he was breathing and that his hands were gripping the edge of the blanket, but his whole being was concentrated on the wonderful heat of her hands and the moistness of her mouth. His movements grew more rhythmic, more insistent, and he dug his heels into the bed as he lifted his hips.

Cassandra teased him no more. She increased the tempo, sliding her hand rapidly, taking him deeper into her mouth. He let go of the blanket and twined his hands in her hair, and she gently pressed on the hidden spot just below the scrotum.

Connor convulsed and pressed upward as all his energy flowed out of him, leaving him gasping and shuddering as wave after wave swept over him. Finally his arms and legs collapsed under him, and he fell back on the bed, breathing hard.

Cassandra stayed where she was, supporting his testicles in one hand, holding him gently in her mouth as he slowly relaxed. His hands lay quietly in her hair, for he was unable to move.

After several long moments he began to stroke her hair, and she moved away from him. Connor gasped as the cool air struck him, and she pulled the blanket over them. She lay down beside him, her head pillowed on his shoulder and her leg between his. Their hands met and intertwined on his chest.

After a long while, he gave a contented sigh. "If the priests say that pleasure is a sin, then for certain that must be a mortal one."

She chuckled against his chest, held close by his arm around her. "Then you enjoyed the lesson?" she asked.

"Oh, aye." He hesitated, then went on, "But, I'm not so certain that I've quite learned it. You may have to teach it to me again."

"Again?" Her hand made intricate patterns on his bare skin. "Well then, Connor, en garde!"

All that night, the longest night of the year, they held each other close. They took comfort and pleasure in each other, until at last they slept, curled together in the great bed with Sela asleep at their feet.

* * *

**This story is continued in**

**Hope Forgotten III**  
**GUARDIAN**


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